Behind Criminal Lines
by KissxTemptationx
Summary: Chief Investigator of Gotham City Police, Violet Whitman takes on the Joker case after a recent breakout at Arkham Asylum. After taking on the identity of a made-up criminal named Lacey Fowlson, Violet joins his ranks to close in on an eventual arrest, but finds herself slipping away under the slaughter and chaos of the Joker's game, and corruption is imminent. Joker/OC
1. Assigned

_It's 2013 now, and I've decided after looking over this fic, gaining inspiration to write it again and inevitably taking it off of hiatus, I will have to thoroughly edit the previous chapters. This is the official updated chapter of BCL. I will be updating throughout, so to new readers, welcome! To old readers, be prepared for some depth and detail I missed out on writing earlier on!_

* * *

It was twenty past two in the morning, and I still had three case files left to go over before the scheduled conviction hearings would be conducted the following afternoon. Words were beginning to run together, criminal testimony meaning next to nothing when my eyes were closing shut every two minutes. The exhaustion was taking a toll on my body throughout the late evening hours, and I had just downed my fourth cup of coffee for the night, ready to pour cup number five when the _drip drip_ of the coffee machine ceased its whirring. Cigarettes did the same thing for me once upon a time, back in the days of my adolescence when the night air did nothing but fuel my thirst for life. College changed those habits fast, and my working environment encouraged the caffeine addiction. It wasn't much of a big surprise, though, but what I wasn't expecting were three consecutive weeks of over eighty hours at Gotham City Police. My heavy eyes began to droop lower at every tick of the clock, the scattered paperwork on my desk inching off the table each time I had a chance to get a moment of peace.

I wondered when these random hours were going to ease up, especially on the criminal cases. Harvey Dent, my late boss, had done more than enough for the police force six months prior before the telltale signs of Gotham tragedy struck him mangled and dead at the height of his career. Hundreds of men were off the streets, and with it I imagined the criminal investigation department to be slow. However, that wasn't the case.

When I regained enough stamina to get the gist of my work done, I alternately ran two markers along the court documents, highlighting the secondary facts in yellow and the primary in blue. It was my duty to discover criminal whereabouts, track them down, and have them arrested until their court dates sentenced them. The upper-hand position wasn't always a beneficial one. Chief Detective of Gotham City Police Department could mean mobs will or already have targeted me. Anyone in a publicly high position on the police force, including Commissioner Gordon, would more than likely be used as bait should the opportunity arise. Other worse things could come to fruition as well—the villains of Gotham's murderous spotlight, take a pick, could include any one of us as part of their plan for their oncoming destruction.

The job description had more than what meets the public eye. I had to be willing to lose sleep as long as required, hence the coffee, arrive promptly when called at any moment, and this means three in the morning, and I could risk my chances of putting my psychological health in jeopardy for the betterment of the city.

In some cases, I was obligated to think like the criminal.

By this point my makeup must have smeared into frightening rings under my eyes from all of the irritable rubbing I'd been doing for the past hour. There were a few people left in the office when I took a quick look around, and I had no doubt their insomnia looked any worse on their faces than mine.

I was up to my neck in paperwork, filling in soon-to-be search warrants and confirmation forms of evidentiary public reveals. Lawyers came to me on a daily basis with either bribes for an information pull or carrying complaints that my evidence just wasn't adequate enough for a sentencing.

But I prove them wrong, despite the odds they set against me. Far-fetched challenges were my forte at the GCPD.

I l_oved _this job. You almost need an outlandishly keen mind to work like this. My interest in criminal investigations even went as far back as my childhood, as much of my childhood that I cared to remember.

I was once the victim of an armed robbery alongside my mother. I had been twelve at the time and quite the strange child, but I remember the day as vividly as the mark it left behind. We were making a check deposit that week, one of the low payment checks my mother received from her three waitressing jobs. The money had been cleared in little to no time and we were on our way out the door, when a masked man sidled in and withdrew a gun. Being the only people closest to him, I distinctly remember the way he looked at me, leaving nothing but his eyes for me to read when he grabbed hold of me and held a large hunting knife pointed to my throat.

The image of the masked man gripping my face had been burned into my mind since that very day. He had demanded that everyone get down on the floor, waving his gun at any unwilling bystanders and firing into the ceiling when the screaming got to be too much for his ears. The knife sliding against my neck got even closer when people started pleading for him to take the money and leave, and when the point bit into my jaw, silence fell upon the occupants of the bank. Who would object to a child's future? I was used as a life or death mechanism if anyone rebelled. One of the most striking recollections I had were of my mother groveling on the floor at his feet—he'd let the blade sink deeper into my neck at her minor movement.

It frightened and intrigued me all at once during those singular moments of me being held hostage. When the metal parted through my neck like butter, the combination of a warm sting mixing with the cold of the blade, adrenaline had pumped through my veins and set my interest afire. I was _hooked_, alarmed, bewitched. My past familiarity of danger drew me closer to him. He had teased my mother, cutting a deep line from the top of my jaw just under my ear and dragging it down past my jugular, never puncturing it, until it curved along the length of my collarbone. I didn't cry. I trembled, squirmed, and barely whimpered, but my resolve was strong. This instinct had bloomed inside of me when he held me to his chest, and I _knew_ in the final seconds before he dug the knife into my skin that he wouldn't kill me. The criminal's mind was fascinating to grasp and dangerous to explore, and I devoted the rest of my education to reach the point I was at today.

"Violet."

The voice was familiar through the haze of sleep I'd been wallowing in and my head immediately snapped up, almost paranoid I had been asleep for too long, and focused on my closest colleague while he settled himself into a seat at the front of my desk.

"Hey, Jared," I croaked, smoothing a hand down my unruly hair and making an attempt to rub the sleep from my eyes. It was the middle of the night, but I was still working. Despite my inherent unwillingness to finish the paperwork for the evening, I tried my best to retain an air of professionalism around my coworker and friend.

A new energy zapped my body awake as I sipped my steaming coffee, shuffling through papers. I looked up half a second and down again, brows furrowed, searching. A stack of thirty papers full of scraggly handwriting and signatures emerged from the pile.

"I'm guessing you want all of my forms for the Williams case hearing tomorrow?" I handed him the bulky stack quickly and began skimming over another recent case again, not noticing the packed manila folder grasped tightly in his other hand.

"Correct." He verified. He ran a hand through his own messy hair, dirty blonde jutting up in a disarray of spikes when he ruffled it. Jared looked incredibly uncomfortable. "And… I have a few questions."

"Questions?" I asked like I didn't understand the meaning of the word.

"Yeah," he sighed, his voice going down a pitch. He eyed the horrible bruise-like circles under my eyes guiltily. "I know you have a lot of criminal cases on the deep end, but your boss specifically told me to assign this case as top priority." Jared paused to take in my expression. "Please don't be mad."

I sighed in annoyance, wondering if he knew just how many cases I already had sitting untouched on my desk.

"It can't be that bad. Come on, what is it?" I laughed. Jared's gaze lingered on the floor. My playful smile slumped into a frown. "Seriously, Jared. I guarantee that whatever it is, I can take it on." He looked reluctant to show the other side of the file. I glanced at my watch. "Can this wait till later? It's 2:47 in the morning."

"The case can't wait, Vi. This is serious." The silver glint of his eyes loomed over me like a rain cloud. He fumbled with the taut rubber band holding the folder together. "Have you been informed of the recent breakouts at Arkham? A pipe bomb was planted-"

I held up a hand to prevent Jared's common chatter. I was starting to feel a pressure headache coming on.

"I know, I know. Planted in the top security cells on the highest floor. Over fifteen criminals, moderate and psychotically dangerous, escaped. Can't you see why I'm here this late?" I gestured to the stacked files sprawled all over my desk.

Jared released his own sigh and threw the manila folder face down in front of me.

"This is why you were given the case. You're more than prepared."

I smirked at him and flipped the file over. The triumphant smirk vanished-his first magic trick of the evening.

"Oh," I whispered.

My hands shook as I removed the rubber band and opened up the folder. A man lacking more morals than the devil himself stared back at me with pit less, black-ringed eyes. The white paint's cracked pieces, a stark contrast to the black, hung desperately off his face. And those scars carved into his cheeks, the most disturbing part of his appearance, forced a smile on him whether or not his mouth obeyed. In this man's world, life and death was merely a card game, and he would be bluffing his whole way through.

This changes everything.


	2. The Plan

**Update (2013): This chapter is edited for the benefit of future chapters, now that this story is off hiatus. Enjoy!**

* * *

I took a taxi straight home after I gathered all the paperwork my clients will eventually need in the afternoon, finished my coffee, and accepted my disheartening fate for being given an impossible villain to catch. I spent the entire time in the taxi with my eyes trained on the passing apartment buildings out the window, not daring to look at the disconcerting grin paper-clipped inside the file.

The first time I saw the Joker's face up close was the night Batman disappeared.

He had seemed quite content hanging upside-down until we arrived, when officers had finally managed to get him off of the trap Batman strung up for the GCDP. I was with the rest of the SWAT team at the bottom of the building, waiting for an unexpected turn of events or more hostiles turning up to counter the capture of their boss. Moments later he was standing a couple feet away from me, tightly handcuffed and heavily guarded while transportation arrangements were being made. He let the police officers do the strenuous work when they began to drag him into the van, but for the most part he was calm, resolute in the way his coal-black eyes averted to mine. I remembered the way my heart thudded against my chest, the way I couldn't stop staring despite my temporary paralysis as his yellow teeth gleamed against his offset red smile. His laughter had sent a shrill jolt through me, and I had forced myself to blink a couple of times and look away to remove myself from the intensity of our exchange. Our stare was short-lived, but it disturbed and fascinated me.

The empty apartment's silence teased me with the promise of sleep when I walked in. Nevertheless, my obsessive tendency to veer on the borderline of insomniac and workaholic disallowed me dreamland for the time being. I had to replace it with work.

I dropped my keys on the kitchen counter and slung my purse over the back of the armchair closest to me. The file remained in my hand, flattening between my palm and fingers the harder my grip tightened on it. It didn't feel right, knowing I'd have to track him down and discover the Joker's intentions _just_to bring Batman back into the picture. No one knew how far he planned to go to get the vigilante to come out of his shelter of darkness, and I shuddered to think how many more deaths would be committed in the name of a man Gotham once looked to for safety. Crime appeared to slow its contagious disease over the half year Batman pulled himself out of the city's spotlight, and I had a feeling the Joker wasn't satisfied.

This was all a game to him—a minute pastime to unmask the hero of crime and burn the city to the ground all at once. He was the prime enemy to the city and villains alike because of his limitless capacity for chaos and power, and chaos was a special taste only the torturous souls like the Joker could revel in. We are his pawns, and his wasteful lackeys were the knights.

I made sure to slip into more comfortable wear before settling down into the sofa, fingers pressing into the Joker's file anxiously. Mere hesitation prevented me from being hasty and opening the file immediately. My hand moved from the top of the file toward the remote sitting on my coffee table. I needed some kind of background noise to drown out the inner turmoil of my thoughts and comfort me in my silent apartment. I was too perturbed to sleep properly at the moment, and my final case awaited me before I had any intention to sleep the remainder of the night away. A replay of Gotham City News' eleven o'clock headlines flashed across the TV, going over the story of the sudden Arkham Asylum breakout for the fourth time today.

"Fifteen criminals have escaped to the streets of Gotham. Their whereabouts are unknown to the press at this time. Among these criminals is the infamous Joker. Please know this man is armed and the most dangerous of the patients. The Gotham City Police Department advises you to walk the streets with extreme caution at all hours of the day. Though police reports conclude that the investigation on hunting down the Batman has reached a dead end, Commissioner Jim Gordon has a few words on the matter." A brief clip of a remarkably calm Commissioner Gordon appeared on the screen. My hands wrung together at the nagging thought of Jim mentioning me.

"The search of the masked vigilante has not ended. The police are continuing to pursue his capture, and I firmly believe only the Batman himself can bring this psychotic criminal to justice. Lead investigators are doing their best to discover the whereabouts of the Joker." He looked into the camera, face stern, eyes anxious about the clown's escape. "For now, we have to place our hope in the police force for the seizing of these criminals and readmitting them back to Arkham."

If there was one thing that became evident in Gordon's speech, it was that he certainly didn't intend, and never will, want Batman behind bars. It was too bad the impending demolition of the Joker was _all_ to get Batman into the public eye once again.

As the anchorwoman went on to the weather forecast for the rest of the week, I turned down the volume on the television to a low chatter, planning to resume my newest assignment. The folder shook in my hands, palms trembling in excitement and fear. I pushed open the top fold, glanced at his mug shot, and began to read a bit of the contents of his analysis.

The pages documented at Arkham shows he has no known alias outside of his criminal name, which applies to the lack of fingerprint matches on file. I estimated he either burned his prints from his fingers or wiped his identity clean from any database containing his true origins. Among the psychological disorder section of the charts, the words _sociopath_, _schizophrenic_, _multiple personality_, _sadism_, and _borderline personality _were scribbled in a messy font across the top of the page. A small note in the corner of the page listed his typical preference of carrying knives over guns, alongside the physical deformities of the Glasgow scars he had become famous for. All of the notes were typical, something I could have assumed for any psychopath locked up in the asylum. None of the labels were out of the ordinary, or peculiar and unique for someone like the Joker. I flipped a couple pages in haste, desperately searching for something I could work with before I called a meeting tomorrow to discuss the case. A copy of his customized calling cards lay in the center of the doctor's notes, typewriter print painted in blood and glaring at me in the dim light of the lamp I had turned on for better reading. On the back of the card someone had written a comment about the Joker never staying in one place for too long, which sparked my interest a little, even though it was also predictable.

I closed the worn folder.

How would I be able to find him when I was obviously on the outskirts of obtaining information, especially when he moves locations as often as criminals getting moved in and out of Arkham? In his earlier days before the destruction became systematically fatal, he spent time scamming mob bosses, building up his power until he could play his knights, jacks and aces in the hole. I pondered over the thought of approaching the villains of downtown Gotham, attempting to persuade mobsters with a clean-cut deal. The idea instantly faded into failure. Too obvious.

I needed to be disguised, imperceptible—an entirely new persona apart from the trained professional I worked hard to become. I would be the opposite of the Violet I knew, black hair into blonde, blue eyes into brown. My appearance would contrast anything that had to do with professionalism and honor.

I needed to be a _criminal_ through and through, something sweetly sinister and clever that not even the Joker would recognize me.

Within seconds, an entire plan started to unfurl inside my head.

The police force would need to be informed and a mass of paperwork required attention before my identity could take root in Gotham's underbelly. There was a fifty percent chance I could die attempting this, but it had to happen… I neededto do this, for the sake of Gotham's citizens and for the sake of my absorption in this case toward the man behind the greasepaint.

I was _wired_. My thoughts were running in a web of disordered pleasure and concern, and I found myself staring absently out window when I shut off the light pulled a throw blanket over me, too worn down to take the fifteen steps required to reach my bedroom.

My hand moved toward the raised flesh of my scar, fingertips trailing the length of the disfigurement until I dragged my palm over my rapid heartbeat.

If you can't beat the Joker, join him.


	3. Lacey Fowlson

**Update (2013): As mentioned in my previous chapters, I have edited this story for the benefit of future chapters I produce. Enjoy!**

* * *

The following day, I had every intention of presenting my future plans for the Joker's case file, which included holding a conference with Commissioner Gordon and my temporary boss, Scott Genton (not quite DA material, but authoritative enough to give orders). The resentment I'd been harboring over Genton throwing the case file at me in the first place had eased considerably, now that my mind was focused on a goal and the objectives applicable to capturing this mass murderer. Jared insisted on being present alongside four distinguished investigators, as well as some of Gordon's most trusted men and women on his force. After the tragedies of Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent being caused partially by corrupted members of the police force, Gordon had taken serious action in whom he hires. The amount of time and care was costly for the new Commissioner, but it was well worth the effort when the rate of crime decreased in the half year he sorted out GCPD priorities. Before I arrived at the station, everyone was informed of my possession of his file and the general key points I planned to address.

I dressed more formal today than usual to reflect my professionalism and seriousness on the matter at hand, and in a lingering sense of hope that I would be able to persuade them I knew exactly what I was doing. Throughout my years of college and during my experience in this profession, I had become an expert on the criminal psyche. Psychology could have easily been another job option, if my interest in criminal justice hadn't taken root at such an early stage of my life. If they trusted me enough to hand over the Joker's files, then they should believe my plan has the potential for success.

When I walked into the room, the sound of my heels clicking in the hallway signaling my approach, any trace of heated discussion or chatter fell into silence. I clutched the Joker's burdening files at my side, surveying each person in the room with my eyes. Gordon and Genton rose to shake my hand, though everyone else remained rooted in their seats, patiently waiting for me to settle papers and documents on the table.

This should work, I assured myself_. _Be as persuasive as possible.

"Good afternoon." I glanced at everyone present for the meeting and released the best smile I could muster on the day I would announce my plans to catch the Joker—one of the most dangerous arrangements I've concocted to date. "You're all wondering why you're here today, and I'm sure the Commissioner has briefed you on a summary of my intentions regarding a recent case brought to me. I was handed the files of the Joker early this morning, as I'm positive each and every one of you know." They mumbled in agreement. I placed his folder on the table, turning to the spacious yellow and blue markings on the pages. "All of you are here, most importantly, because I trust you. Secondly," I glanced down at the side-notes scribbled into the manila, "I have a plan."

A knowing smile pulled at the corners of my lips. Devious, but subtle enough to gain the attention I required.

"You say the Joker can't be caught. Not by us. That he's hard to find until he makes his appearance for the disturbing shows he puts on to get our attention. In this case, searching for him with our officer and investigator identities will prove to be unproductive and pointless."

Jared stood from his seat, as if suddenly stung by a bee or on cue at my statement. "You can't be serious, Violet!" As one of my closest coworkers and a dear friend, he would know out of anyone in this room what anticipated doing.

I shot him a look that made him fall into silence and shuffled through my papers some more to gather the remainder of my thoughts.

"Oh, I am serious." Anyone in the room could see my sincerity, the way I imagined my eyes sparkling when I thought about the case even more. "This is why I broke down the details. We are Gotham's protectors. Our faces can usually be seen on the eight o'clock news each night. We'll be recognized before we had the chance to attack." Jared's expression crossed between shock and horror, his hands clenching the ends of his pen to keep himself from speaking out of turn a second time. I drew in a deep breath and stared at the tips of my pointed heels, bracing myself for the reactions I would get with my following proposition. "_I've_ decided to step ahead and attack full front, in a way. You are my backup in case I fail. If I heavily disguise myself, I won't be seen. I'd like to conclude with a basic question. What better way to capture the Joker than by joining his ranks? Double-agent work. Something we haven't done in a long time."

"Miss Whitman." Ariel Baelon, one of my colleagues, rose from her seat. The redhead looked snide in the way she held herself in front of me, nude lips twisting into a triumphant smirk when she watched me raise my brows. "Wouldn't this be breaking the oath we took when we accepted these jobs? Our morals?"

I withdrew a paper from the pile I had organized during her brief speech, eyes raking over the marginal notes concerning morality at the bottom of the page.

"Allow me to finish, Detective Baelon. I will complement every way I look right now. Black will go blonde, blue will go brown. It's amazing the way a face can change when we make alterations to the hair and eyes. We can put me in the system and generate a new identity, name and everything." My hands folded behind my back, confident, poised. "Finding him can be simple when the law isn't at your back. I will visit one of the clown's workers we locked up. When I question him, I will adopt the persona of the criminal identity I create. I'll be on my guard, asking for a few of the buildings he last made deals with his boss in. His mind will grow suspicious, paranoid." I paused and looked around, careful to not get too eager about the idea of it. Not one word was spoken by anyone. They were listening, not disagreeing. I was satisfied.

"Some convincing on my behalf will turn him around. I'll write the addresses down. When I find him," the smug expression returned, "there may be some form of an initiation. My training will take root here. I'll join his crew and spend most of my time finding ways to be alone with him. And then we've got him." A few police officers nodded encouragingly in my direction and turned to talk among themselves. Gordon observed my enthusiastic expression, the lines around his mouth sloping down when my smile grew wider. I felt accomplished after all those hours poring over files.

"You understand this is easier said than done, Violet?" Gordon murmured when he was in the vicinity of no one nearby hearing our conversation.

"Yes, sir, I understand." The tone in my voice rang out firm and true.

"Do you understand the danger you are placing yourself in? Going alone and working alone under the eyes of the Joker?" He stared at me hard. "This man is sick, Violet. He takes pride in getting under people's skin, no matter how much they guard themselves. I want you to be careful." His hand went to my shoulder and squeezed it, the worry in his eyes so evident now that I had to swallow down my nervousness.

"I understand, Jim. What's in my past will stay there, and I can handle myself." It took great restraint to force back what I remember of my childhood, and my hand went to my neck by instinct again. _The hardships of life are what makes us stronger_, a saying my mother used to tell me, flashed through my thoughts. My fingers ran the course of my scar again and dropped to my side. Gordon shook his head in recognition, attempting a smile.

"I trust you. Send the transcripts for your identification by four o'clock this afternoon. You start tomorrow." Gordon patted me on the back lightly and turned to address the witnesses of the room, notifying them of my consent to take on this responsibility. The conference room cleared. I politely thanked him a second time when I noted that my other clients needed me, and left.

* * *

"Violet!" Jared loudly called, running down the corridor leading to the court room to catch me before I entered my third court hearing this afternoon. My feet lurched to a halt the second I was about to walk in, waiting for him. I knew he worried that I might be spending a majority of my days working with the Joker, and I didn't blame him. Jared was aware of my flaws when it came to my interest in criminal psychology, my fascination with the minds of nationwide murderers. He knew I was cutting it close, but frankly his lack of faith in my ability was beyond frustrating.

"Yeah?" I put a hand on my hip and gestured with a set of files in my other hand to the court room. "Can't you see I'm a little busy?"

"Don't go through with this. You're going to get yourself killed," he whispered harshly.

I laughed quietly to myself and averted my eyes to the floor, bringing them back up to his ill-fated face. "You need to lighten up a little, Jared. I have scars of my own to bear if I need a rebuttal to convince this clown." I tilted my head up and pushed down the scarf wrapped around my neck. He gave me no more than a grimace when I brushed against the horrendously scarred tissue tracing down my neck and across my collarbone.

My hand went to his arm to comfort him. I gave him a tender smile. "I'm a little crazier than you think. I'll fit in perfectly, and he won't suspect a thing. Just relax. Call you later?"

Jared knew he wasn't winning this argument. He broke my gaze and sighed, shaking his head to at least let me know he's acknowledging my wishes. I patted his arm in the same self-assured way Gordon did with me and watched him walk away as I inched backwards into the courtroom.

Before he was far enough away to prevent me from hearing him slinging comments under his breath, I heard him faintly mutter, "That's what I'm worried about."

I pretended I didn't hear a word.

* * *

Later that evening after I had been dismissed early from work, I went out to run errands and bought the required necessities that would help put my plans into action. I'd be taking on a different persona tomorrow and with it a new appearance entirely. My ID form was filled out and resting on my bathroom counter for submission, which I'd have to fax to Gordon or Genton in the next hour or two. A disarray of products, clothing and accessories littered my bed, and for a while I simply stared at the mess, so overwrought with anticipation that I didn't know where to begin.

The double-agent name I took as my own would soon be Lacey Fowlson—a tough and shrewd criminal who was raised in the Narrows with an abusive upbringing. Lacey had escaped her violent household in her late teens to flee the horror of her father's cruelty and her mother's passivity. The maltreatment had become intolerable to the point where Lacey's resolve provoked an onset of retaliation, including the murdering of her father by her own hand. With enough funds to foster a living on her own, she turned to crime to sustain her place in society.

Lacey was meant to be a dark, disturbed and dangerously intelligent character. There was some semblance of me, a part of me I had shut away and forgotten a long time ago, that resembled this persona. I didn't remember the better part of my childhood, and by the time I had reached legal age, my parents were already a distance influence in my life. Forging a life out of the scraps I was left with had been done out of my own driving volition to succeed. Lacey, in due part, represented the path I could have selected if my post-secondary education hadn't steered me from Gotham's typical career of crime. Her anger would become my anger, her hate my hate.

I could only hope for the chance I would make it out of this death trap alive.

When I resigned to organizing my purchases in a neat line on my bed, I thought it would be nice to start with the hair. The salon would be weaving in blonde strands by tomorrow, because it was near impossible to bring my hair to a full blonde without enduring the damage bleaching would do. As for now, I would color my hair to a faint chestnut shade, as light as I could go, and insert the brown contact lenses designed to be fully functional for sleep and day wear. I was no colorist by trade, and it was easy to say I left my bathroom a mess when I managed to rinse my hair free of residue and blow dried it into its natural wave. The contacts were finally in after I mopped up the disaster on the counter, and I blinked a couple of times to let them adjust to the surface of my eyes.

Dark pools of brown stared back at me in the mirror.

I didn't look like myself at all. The transformation was remarkable, and the hair color and eyes _did_ change my face. Though it would be blonder come tomorrow morning, my hair looked tousled, wild. The blue eyes I had become so accustomed to seeing were replaced by pits of darkness, feral and threatening in contrast to the pale shade of my hair.

This was the face of a criminal. _This_ was Lacey. The face the Joker might be intrigued by and grow to appreciate as a welcome addition to his chaotic followers—the one that's going to betray him. This time, he will be the one that's fooled.

Lacey's eyes narrowed in the mirror, a tug at the corner of her mouth lifting into a shameless grin.

"It's show time."


	4. Tainted

**Update (2013): Chapter is fully edited and ready for your reading pleasure! Enjoy the new additions!**

* * *

At ten in the morning, I walked into the agency as Lacey Fowlson, and no one recognized me.

I maintained an intimidating air about me as I walked, each step becoming my attempt to evoke uneasiness in the people I passed. Did I look like a typical criminal? Would I be able to act like a delinquent? I felt like one.

Out of my peripheral vision, I noticed officers letting their hands fall to the comfort of their pistols tucked away in their harnesses. I was satisfied at their mistrust, to say the least, and continued my walk to the front desk. My curiosity got the better of me when I turned in passing to catch a glimpse of my newly golden hair in the mirror, and I gave a firm tug at the shiny locks. They didn't budge. The chestnut strands of my own hair I had dyed the previous evening mixed in well with the lighter hair, making it look more natural than one solid color by itself. Kara, the hairdresser who tended to my dilemma this morning, did a wonderful job and imparted a great deal of information to help me retain the look for a month or two. All of the clothes I had laid out on my bed the night before were outfits I imagined Lacey would wear, and today I took the liberty of donning the most enduring one I could put together. I had form-fitting dark wash jeans that looked a little worse for wear, paired with a black wife beater and a cropped leather jacket matching the hue of my new eyes. For a criminal, I looked decently put together, but not formal enough to make the disguise unbelievable.

"CI Violet Whitman," I intoned, holding out my identification card to the front desk secretary. She looked up from whatever task she had been preoccupied with, tossing her gum around in her mouth. Her eyes narrowed at the obvious problem with my ID, so I leaned in toward her to prevent eavesdroppers and added, "I'm here to see Commissioner Gordon about my new ID for undercover work."

"Very well," she answered with beady eyes, fishing out a copy of my application form from a drawer of files next to her desktop computer. "Welcome, Miss Whitman." She regarded my rough façade with an unwarranted sense of alarm.

I gripped the application in my right hand, whistling my way down the hallway and ignoring the rest of the stares I received once I reached the door of Gordon's office. The door was cracked when I arrived. Whispers circulated out of the small space, muffled and unintelligible to my ears from where I stood. I could barely make out the words exchanged, but at the hinge of the door, I caught the remainder of the private conversation.

"—I don't think she should go through with this, Jim. There has to be another way."

"Miss Whitman is a smart girl, Scott. I'm anxious, too, but Violet has had enough experience to bear the responsibility of this task. She's reached her current position as chief detective by her dedication to criminal investigation." A pause. "I wouldn't doubt her ability."

I could hear Genton's habitual rubbing of his stubble with his hand, smoothing from the plane of his cheek down to his chin in deep thought. A nervous tick, and a pretty obvious one.

"What are you proposing her to do as a start in finding his location?"

"We're taking her to one of the Joker's men who took part in the attempted murder of the mayor. He hasn't had any visitors since his arrest, and he might be a little eager to relay some information when provoked."

I had heard everything I needed to hear, so I knocked and pushed open the door to put an end to the conversation.

"Good morning, gentleman." Their heads turned at the familiarity of my voice, but I could see the typical surprise in their faces when they took in the changes of my appearance. "Lacey Fowlson reporting for duty, sir." I sent a mock salute in the direction of Genton, whose jaw slackened slightly the closer I walked toward them. He nodded with approval, saying nothing, and dismissed himself to leave me alone with Gordon. "How do I look, Commissioner?"

Gordon's tentative smile gave me enough hope to conclude I looked convincing.

"Violet isn't detectable at all." He said it as if he was amazed. "And that scar…" I instinctively reached out to touch it, brushing my fingertips along the trail. "You wear scarves when you're working, last I remember. This mark adds credibility to your criminal background. You're set. Let me look over your profile for one moment." He lifted a coffee mug off his desk, taking small sips when he finished reading over the paragraphs dedicated to my false history. "That's quite a life there."

"I threw in the criminal background additions in case I get caught. I'll have crimes to be cited against me, which may prove beneficial if the Joker is listening nearby." The details weren't sorted out when it came to the topic of arrests, but I firmly believed they would let me go if I had been caught in a crime I wasn't primarily responsible for. I hoped.

"Right." He set his coffee down and fed the form through a scanner. As the machine hummed to do its work, he met my gaze and raised a brow, inquisitive. "So, you all set and ready?"

* * *

I handed over my real identification card to Commissioner Gordon, along with my credit cards, keeping any extra cash I had in my wallet stowed away in my pockets. Then I slid my new ID— Lacey Fowlson: 25 years old, 5'5", blonde hair, brown eyes—into the coat pocket of the brown leather jacket I had on at GCPD. Two automatic pistols were strapped under my frayed denims for later use. When we entered Gotham City Prison, I kept my face poised and stoic, running over the attitude I had to assume in my mind.

I was Lacey now and it was an obligation to hide Violet's entire professional mien. Lacey thrived off of the crime in Gotham; violence made her who she was, abuse molded the animosity of humanity in her mind, and murder instigated that itch she would constantly be scratching so long as Gotham continued birthing evil from its underworld. I had to be unfair and cruel to get the information I wanted, and I had to remind myself that this inmate we were visiting was a criminal. He deserved justice, and if that meant slapping him around with empty threats, then that would be my intended action.

A guard at the entrance of the wing sized us up when we fell in short of where he stood. His respect for the Commissioner was obvious, but one glance at me and his open veneration fell into an stern frown.

"Who's this girl?" The guard questioned gruffly. His eyes followed me every time I made a movement. Though it was starting to grow aggravating, I took gratification in knowing my plan was working.

"This is Chief Detective Violet Whitman. She's here for investigative business concerning Williams' involvement with the Joker, under certain circumstances." The guard's weatherworn, sunburnt face atoned. He lowered his weapon.

"My apologies."

"It's alright." I let myself surface for the time being, looking to Gordon for affirmation I can direct orders to the guard. "When you lead me to his cell, don't refer to me as detective. Just mention to Williams that he has a visitor. When he asks who it is, reply with the name Lacey Fowlson. Got that all?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." I turned my attention to Gordon. We exchanged a calculating stare, one that could easily go unnoticed under the guard's scrutiny, and the stare spoke of a silent acknowledgment I would have to push the boundaries in securing the information I wanted. "I'll be out in a couple of minutes."

The guard opened a heavy steel door, revealing what seemed to be an unending hallway of prisoner cells. I heard a few wolf whistles and crude comments howled at me as I passed by, but it was something expected in a place that housed Gotham criminals. I ignored the background commentary and focused on my goal: Williams' cell.

Fifty cells in, the guard stopped. The dark cell held an energy that felt out of place within the pit of my chest, but I swallowed my fear down and stared inside. Huddled in the corner of his prison was a lanky and pallid man. Dirty hair hung in lifeless heaps around the hollows of his cheeks and his deep set eyes that glistened like the film of a drug-induced stupor appeared vacant when his head turned at our footsteps.

"Williams, you've got yourself a visitor." The guard's thick Jersey accent made the prisoner's shoulders twitch in surprise.

"Who would visit me?" he jeered. The higher tenor voice spat sarcasm at the guard when he went to handcuff his wrists together. Williams looked at me, unfamiliarity evident in his bruised eyes.

"Some girl named Lacey Fowlson. Says she got a proposition for you." He motioned me in and closed the cell door, skipping the locking ritual.

I stood in front of him for a short moment, unsure of where to start with how I would approach questioning. I'd been accustomed to interrogation rooms, when most of the prisoners were more than willing to spill secrets in exchange for a shorter sentence. But this man had already been sentenced and confined. Fate dealt her cards for him, and Williams had nothing left to lose other than his life as a bartering component for locations.

"So… _Lacey_. Whatcha want from a guy like me, huh?" His lips pulled back to reveal crooked teeth tinted pebble gray.

"I want work. With your boss." I waited for his face to give away any sleight of emotions. Annoyance, rage, hatred; the normal sentiments I see suspects hand out to their interrogators. But Williams' expression didn't deviate from the blank, deadpan stare he had assumed the moment I walked in the cell.

Instead, he hissed low, "He's not my boss _anymore_." His bright blue eyes swirled around in their sockets, searching for something I couldn't see. "It's not like you could negotiate with a guy like him. He kills them all in the end… all of them_…_"

The man was mental. I took this as a clear sign Lacey should cut deep into the core of Williams' insanity and root out the Joker's imprint. Relying on the physical training I endured some years ago, I lifted him by the scruff of his jumpsuit and held him with my forearm against the wall. He was light for a man. My palms suddenly itched in the thrill of being dangerous, holding his neck in a vice he couldn't loosen.

"Where is he?!" I nearly screamed at him. Reaching down, I pulled out the pistol from under my pant leg and pressed it below his chin. A delighted laugh escaped my lips, the comfort of Lacey's unbreakable backbone easing into my frame of mind. "The guard won't help you if you scream, I'll give you that much." I was breathless from the excitement, panting at the rush. My hand pushed the end of the gun even harder into the underside of his jaw, enough that I believed I could leave a nice purple bruise behind if I tried. Williams squirmed under my grip, kicking at nothing but the air beneath his feet. Helpless was where I wanted this man. I had to get him to the point where his own life would become more valuable than an end to his crumbling mental state. He was close to my face, and he still couldn't recognize me. This new face, the feline glimmer of Lacey's smile, terrified him. Williams wanted nothing more than to crawl back into the corner and let those voices inside his head reign his actions again. Much more than this.

"Ah, Williams, time is ticking."

"He's in several places!" he shouted out the best his strained vocal cords would allow. The man choked for fresh air, clawing with his handcuffed wrists to let me release him. My hold on him lessened for the time being, but the threat of the gun firing at any moment hadn't ceased.

"Does he ever return to previous spots?" I asked with less bite in my voice than the last question. Williams licked his lips to speak and swallowed thickly, a little too long for my patience to allow. I shoved him into the opposing wall roughly, moving my gun to the middle of his forehead. His whimpers echoed out into the hall, where I heard several prisoners searching around for the disruption. "Do you really think I can't work for him when a scampering rat like you did? Huh? Tell me. Is it because I'm a woman?" I bit back, teeth bared and feral like the animal Lacey was.

"He—he does. Yes, returns to previous spots." Williams let out a few laughs at the thought of it. "Want the locations?" He licked his lips, eyes directing downward and up at me. "Give me a little something something, sweetheart." Another laugh reverberated through the cell. I slammed his head into the wall hard enough to bleed, but not enough for him to fall under unconsciousness. I could feel my blood pulsing erratically through my veins, tingling from the ends of my toes right up to the numbing rush in my head.

"Look, buddy, I'm not one of those whores walking the streets of the Narrows at night, and I'm certainly not a harlot. Have some respect for someone who can blow a hold clean through your head at the pull of a trigger." I cocked the gun, letting the bullet slide into place beside his head.

Williams' body burst into panicked spasms at the click. Tears leaked through his psychotic eyes. "I'll tell you! Please! Just please don't shoot me." He began to quake with trembling sobs, and the pathetic shell of a man curled into himself reclusively when I let his body drop to the floor. My first objective was completed. Lacey's fear tactics won.

"Good," I grinned, satisfied with my work. "Be specific, if you have the decency to remember."

* * *

After I emerged from the prison cells holding a list of ten different landmarks and addresses, I shared my updates with Gordon and shook hands with him in parting, knowing there was a chance I could be dead by the end of the day if I wasn't careful. I managed to flag down a taxi a couple blocks from the prison, hopping in the car and picking an address halfway down the page and the deepest in the Narrows I could recognize.

"Where to, miss?" I recited the address to the taxi driver, looking down at the scribbled numbers on the piece of paper just to be sure.

He seemed to know where the address ended based on his taciturn behavior after my reading off of the paper. Nevertheless, he complied without complaint or comment, and I imagined him flooring the gas pedal of the taxi as soon as I exited the car. We passed by Gotham's inner city, crossing a lengthy bridge into the downtown area. The population went from crowded to nearly empty as the buildings reduced in quality and number by the minute. More trash littered the sidewalks. The sophisticated dress from the upper business districts dwindled down to women donning suggestive or service clothes, and men of the mob looking clean-cut as ever in their designer business suits that tucked away concealed weapons from any wandering onlooker. This was the Narrows, a slum and epicenter of crime, churning out Gotham's most wanted criminals as fast as the city's piling debt.

It was mid-afternoon once I finished up my scaring tactics with, and during that time I had packed a knife in the inner pocket of my jacket for extra defense. The nerves were beginning to bubble up inside my stomach, I couldn't help that. I had never been in this part of the city alone before; I was always accompanied by the police force, all armed and at the ready for any outbreak of gunfire. It was worse that I was a woman and alone. The odds were stacked against me in triple over a lonesome man walking the streets. Pondering over the fact that I'd be standing face-to-face with the insidious, painted man raised goose bumps on my flesh more than the idea of being cornered in an alley did. I began to wonder if he would accept me into his gang or not. There was one certainty I was sure of, however. I wouldn't be coming out alive if my acceptance was a no-go. There had to be an initiation of some sort, and I was determined to go great lengths to pass it; I just wasn't sure what those lengths were.

It struck me odd that Williams had managed to pass the tests himself, but his blatant showcase of insanity convinced me otherwise of my doubts.

I can do this.

"We're here, miss." A line of warehouses greeted me when we rounded the last block. With a brief look at my notes I hastily scrawled down, this was the address I had selected. I was here.

I handed the driver some extra dollars on account of where we were and stepped out of the taxi. Priority number one, I needed to calm down. Walking in as a petrified statue would cost me my life. After inhaling a couple deep breaths for a minute, I approached the warehouse with a newfound confidence. I willed Lacey's personality to take over, visualized her energy coursing through my limbs, her itch for revenge and murder sending vibrations through my fingertips. Williams firmly implied that the Joker appeared at this warehouse. It was where deals were dealt and lives were taken in exchange—where most of the corrupted blood was spilled. A bulletproof vest was not an option, not when I wasn't a member of the GCPD today.

This was my plan. My decision, and I was going to prove all of them wrong.

I entered a gritty room, throwing open the doors in a showy manner on purpose, and pulled up the corners of my mouth to get the attention I required to make my case.

"Hey, boys."

The tone that emerged from my lips was seductive and cruel, and it came from an unfamiliar voice of mine. Joker's henchmen rose to their feet the instant I spoke and raised their guns in a measly attempt to threaten me. I twisted my features into a disapproving glare.

"Aw, come on. I 'm here for business, boys. Where's your boss?" The group of six men exchanged confused glances with one another and looked back at me. They lowered their guns, smiles cracking the serious of their faces in seeing a small and apparently frail woman standing among them. I whistled low, reaching down and pulling out the pistol from its holster under my right pant leg. "Let's not get _too_ happy I'm here."

I waved the gun at each of their heads in a thoughtful manner and pointed it at the closest man's leg. Part of my conscience, the austere, moral side of me, rejected the action in firm disagreement. But at the other end, Lacey's character begged for pain. I convinced myself it wouldn't kill him; it was being done for a purpose and he would survive the encounter.

I fired a round into his leg, blowing a clean hole through.

"Ooh…" I flinched away from my infliction and let my lips graze a kiss across the firing chamber of the gun. "Ouch."

The men minus the wounded circled around me and raised their guns again. At the time, I acted on instinct and remained still. One wrong move and I knew my insides would be blown outward.

"Listen, maybe one of you could go get him for me. I'm here for a job application, sweets." I dropped my gun in surrender, holding my hands up with devilish innocence.

"We're filled." A deep voice to my right responded. One of them moved closer and prodded my side with his caliber.

"Is that so?" I glared, motioning to the man clutching at his leg and writhing on the blood-stained floor. "Looks to me you've got an open slot, hun-"

"Gen-t-le-men, gen-t-le-men. What've we got _here_?" The childish, growling tone of a man's voice echoed the room—a man far too familiar for comfort. Heavy footfalls approached the circle and the men scattered like herded sheep in a field of wolves. "You've caught us a lady friend, have you?" He approached from behind me quickly. The airless presence was almost maddening to experience firsthand, but I kept up the façade strongly and plastered my own roguish grin on my tainted lips.

A sharp blade smoothly slid across my cheek, shining a reflective beam off the warehouse lights as it ran across the point of my chin. The Joker came into view before me at a quick skip, scars and all.

"Pretty one." He muffled his bone-chilling laughter into silence and proceeded to drag his knife across my scarred neck. His brows furrowed at what he saw, and I watched him hesitate for only a moment, intrigued at the knife-work done to my body.

"She wants a job, boss." A lackey chuckled in the uncomfortable silence. "She shot one of us in the leg to get her point across."

Joker's black eyes glanced down at the pain-stricken man. The white paint cracked under muscle movement and his painted smile drew up into a twisted grin. He stepped away, waving his hand forward to signal a henchman to press a gun in warning against the base of my spine. Blood poured from the dying man's wound like a fountain, painting the floor a beautiful crimson around his quivering body. The Joker hopped around him and laughed, kicking at his wounded leg for his own amusement.

The scream was like child's candy to this man's ears. He snatched a handgun off the guy closest to him and fired an extra two rounds into the wounded man's body. Shrieks of agonizing pain pierced everyone's ears. The only one classically comforted by the noise was the Clown Prince. Joker popped his lips, satisfied with the slow death.

I lifted my leg stealthily and slid my second pistol out of the other holster. His horrific gaze shifted to me in a second, upturning another insane grin at the sight of a gun in my hand. He waved his own pistol at the man behind me, laughing when I fired into the guy's leg.

"Ooh, I think I like her already!"


	5. Initiation

**Update (2013): I have added a couple things to this chapter, including a dream sequence, and thoroughly edited dialogue and any rough patches I encountered. Enjoy!**

* * *

I put on the most malicious smile I could muster, saying confidently, "So we're in agreement, then." The Joker's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Look! She's a smiler!" He cackled, slapping his leather-clad hands on his knees, skipping around the two lifeless bodies pouring crimson all over the tiled floor. I couldn't prevent the shock settling over me when I realized their deaths were my doing. I'd shot them in areas I thought, no, I _knew_, would not be fatal. I shot them, and the Joker finished them off. "I always enjoy the smilers in this world."

He grabbed a handful of my blonde hair in his fist, which barely budged at the yank, and threw me forward onto the stained tile. The last gun I had in my possession slipped out of my hand at the pull, but the sharpened blade in my pocket remained intact and out of view. I took comfort in that thought as one of his men lifted me up and locked my arms behind my back. It was a position I couldn't get out of on my own. The tight hold he had on me painfully strained the joints in my shoulders when I struggled, so I did my best to keep a composed, Lacey-like face—my mouth quirked into a half-smile, eyes narrowing in challenge at the remaining henchmen keeping me rooted in place.

"Is this gonna be your form of… initiation?" I laughed, blowing strands of hair out of my eyes to focus all of my attention on the maniac three feet away. It was like toying with fate, speaking against him. I literally felt my heart pound irregular, frantic beats, as if it knew someone in the room could stop it in a second. I refrained from kicking the kneecaps of the man restraining me and trusted the only form of instinct I had that told me I wasn't going to die today. The Joker spun on his heels, directing all movements toward my reluctantly immobile body.

"Ha! Initiation!" His breathing came out in thrilled pants as he grazed his tongue across the disfigured scar carved into his cheek. The Joker's cackles made the men around him shrink back, even after all of their reunited days working with their boss. He pressed the point of his switchblade to the corner of my mouth, popping his lips a second time when he lowered his face closer to my line of vision. "Let's see. How about implanting a couple of bullets in that _pe__t__i__t__e_ body of yours and see if you survive!" He seemed to be in hysterics at the idea.

Staring at the space above me due to his looming height, he gripped his chin, tapping at the smeared white paint as if in deep thought. It was only a distraction.

"Nah, too mind-blowing for a puh-tential re-cruit." He hunched down to my level and slid a long purple clad arm around my neck, tracing a line with his switchblade down the unscarred section of my skin. "I was thinking…" He waved his free arm in the air like he had a magic trick he wanted to reveal to me. "Maybe carving a fresh set of body art may prove your loy-al-ty to me." The Joker annunciated the word with heavy emphasis. His hand gripped my chin, lifting my face up into his view. The characteristics of Lacey kicked in, and my mouth labored a suggestive purse. Before I could wittily shoot back my protest, he dropped his arms away from me and let one of his men hold me up again.

I didn't struggle against the painful vice this time. My eyes were wary of the Joker instead. His stance complemented mine, and if I hadn't fallen for the diversion he set up, I would've noticed the intentions in his blackened eyes. The acting might have worked before his arrival, but at this point, anything was inevitable. It was like watching a scene in slow motion. The sinister cackle rung in my ears, filling up my heart with a burning trepidation; the way he gripped the handgun, hunched, sliding his heel at a ballpoint on the unclean floor. I only had time to take in everything at once. The deviant acknowledgement. The psychotic glimmer. He flipped the gun to its base and whipped it at the side of my head in an unforeseen blow.

I fell roughly to the tile as the black spots clouded my vision. I had enough time to say what needed to be said before my voice would fade into nonsensical muttering.

"That's more like it." A subconscious sense of fear and failure flooded my senses, preoccupying me enough to cover my head wound with a hazy laugh. I brought my palm back from where it smeared a warm substance on my forehead and stared at the red painting my fingers. He had won this round, and I wasn't sure if this would be my last round of his game. The thud of a gun falling beside me and the Joker's stifled merriment faded with the silent darkness awaiting me.

* * *

I floated in an abyss of black for some time, full of confusion when the shooting pain in my head numbed and disappeared completely. In the distance, if I focused long enough, I could hear the faint cries of a child. The voice seemed familiar, and I recognized the weeping coming from a young girl as her sobs grew louder. My head whipped in the direction the sounds emitted the loudest, feet carrying me until the dark started to dissipate like a fog. The light was bright for a dream, and I couldn't understand my primary role in it when screams started to accompany the cries. Then the shouting started.

I watched a girl around eleven years of age huddle in the corner of a lackluster living room, who stared wide-eyed at the image of her mother being struck by a massive, dark-haired man twice her height. Her mother didn't cry out during her father's repetitious blows to her gut—instead, she silently wept in front of the girl, curling in a protective ball when the beast of a man moved toward their daughter.

He screamed unintelligible, disgusting words in her pale face, directing a thick finger to her frail mother lying in a trembling state of fear on their stained carpet. When the girl, who was preoccupied with clutching her stuffed rabbit rather than letting her eyes stray to the horrific evidence of her broken household, chose not to answer her father's questions, he seized her by the collar of her nightgown and backhanded her. He continued to threaten her, shaking the child until she burst into shrieking sobs that did no more than anger him further.

I watched this spectacle at a distance and took note of my hands quivering the more the violence escalated. The pain in my head was beginning to return, thudding with rapid rhythm of my heartbeat until I heard nothing but a backdrop of pounding played to the music of screams and bodies hitting the floor.

* * *

I was slowly regaining consciousness when the seal of sleep broke and left me in a layer of sweat and blood. Loose pipes rattled above me, a light swung creakily overhead, and I heard the smallest sound of the clang of a blade on a glass table. The skin on my wrists ached from the pressure of the metal handcuffs locking my arms in a crisscrossed rest. Little efforts in moving them only resulted in an intensified pain shooting up my forearms. A crusted, irritating texture lined the right side of my forehead when I furrowed my eyebrows. I released an indignant groan from my lips, tipping the weight of my head from side-to-side when I came to a comprehensible state of alertness—enough coherency to converse with my interrogator. There was humming in the corner of the room, but I couldn't distinguish who it was. But I had an idea, to say the least.

"La-cey _Fowl_-son. Lac_-ey_. Lacey, Lace…" He rumbled in a low growl. The black areas of my sight didn't stop my eyes from detecting a tall figure in the distance. He turned his shoulders at my groan, the blood-red smile the first hint of color standing out to me. "Ha ha! She lives!" The Joker's stretched grin was prominent from across the room. His figure drew nearer through my blurred haze until I made out what he was holding in his hand.

There sat my new ID card, glaring up at his painted face. He turned it over, front and back, numerous times, narrowing his eyes at how real it looked. It confused him, I could tell in the way he furrowed his eyebrows. He exaggerated a sigh and sauntered over to where I was seated, almost bored.

"So… Lacey. Is it true you really are as foul as your name?" He broke out into a round of fitful giggles, twirling my paring knife through his gloved fingers—the blade that used to be hidden away in my inner coat pocket. My jacket sat folded on the table along with the pistols I used previously. The Joker hummed to himself again, continuing to shift his heavy gaze from the knife to my face as he circled me. He bent down to my eye level, holding the blade to my mouth. "For a criminal, sweetheart, you definitely came… under-equi_pped_."

I opened my mouth to say something sarcastic to him, but he pushed his finger onto my parted lips.

"Shhh, it's not your turn yet, now is it?" His yellow teeth flashed at me, bringing me back to the sudden memory of when I first saw his painted smile up close. "What makes you think, my lovely Lace, that the job is handed down to you?" I closed my mouth, anxious that I could have blown my cover already. My stomach contorted into knots at the thought of what he would do if he knew. His face drooped at my crestfallen expression. "Oh, you look disappointed, toots." He pouted his lips, mocking me. "Not to worry," his voice went up a pitch, "you'll just have to puh-roove yourself."

"Isn't that why I'm here?" My vulnerability had gotten under my skin, and I believed the Joker could sense my agitation. "Can I have my weapons?" I had the sudden urge to have my finger on a trigger, now that my paring knife was being waved threateningly in my face.

"Now let's not get… _too_ ahead of ourselves." He winked, holding up the knife again. Two of his men, now disguised in their plastic clown masks, entered the room. "I'd like to see…" he barked a laugh, unlocking my handcuffs quickly, "how you can handle yourself. If you realllly are the criminal you claim yourself to be."


	6. Curious To Crush

**It took so long to get this chapter out, and I hope it doesn't disappoint. I'm afraid only half of it is the Joker, the other half is Violet's musings. With the counting down of the days until school will reign my life again, I started to become uninspired to write because I knew that Junior Honors English is going to try it's hardest to keep me from fanfiction. I might have a bit of writer's block for the next one, I have to get a lot of planning done to initiate actions in chapter 7. I'm open to any suggestions, critiques, and comments on what I should do and improve on. Please review or PM me with them. Really, reviews are what drive me to write more, and I'm open to anything. Other than my insisting for reviews, enjoy the chapter! P.S. My apologies for the awkward title change in the story, I honestly don't know how _Behind Criminal Lines_ went to _Behind Enemy Lines_.**

What was I going to do? The panic ate away in the dark recesses of my mind, fist clenched and unclenching, expecting the imminent attack on their unarmed possessor. My new brown eyes swerved, searching the dimly lit room and landing on my guns. They were left unguarded, as was the plan I spotted in the Joker's eyes. It was all a test; he had tasted my slipping guise on the tip of his defiled tongue. I had to prove how cruel I could be, how cruel _Lacey_ had to be. I sent a silent prayer up into the cracked ceiling through the rapid thoughts twisting and reforming in my head.

I was going to have to **kill**.

It's what his thumping, evil-ridden heart desired. I had to form the attack quickly through agile contemplations, for one of the masked clowns lunged at me with the bottom of his caliber. I ducked before he had the opportunity to launch a round of bullets into my abdomen, hooking my heel around his ankle in a fleeting second. The audible sniggers rang in the air of my attack, almost beckoning me to inflict more pain.

The second one came at me from behind.

I couldn't play the game as happily and excitedly as the Joker would have liked. My combat movements were in full concentration, each duck planted into my brain a millisecond before their move. I was knocked forward, but well prepared to reach out for his gun blindly and steal it from his hands. The trigger shook underneath my nervous fingers. It couldn't have been possible to execute if I did it slowly, with thought. I was pulled even further backwards when I fired the loaded gun, gasping at the power I induced into the fatal blow.

It was hard to believe that I, Violet Whitman, the Chief Detective of Gotham City for God's sake, delivered death with intention.

_It was self defense_. My conscience fired back at me before the sick, criminality of guilt thinned my disguise. It was without thinking that I stood vigorously and turned on the wounded man, pressing the full weight of my body into the unharmed one I took with me to the floor. My nostrils flared in rage at what the Joker cost me to _prove_ that there was a callous, uncharitable woman in front of him.

"_My, my_…" he giggled, kicking at listless body sprawled out at my feet. The masked lackey under my heel groaned under the pressure, disturbing the approved silence of the Joker. "Welcome to the gang, _Lace_. Ya know," he pointed a purple-gloved finger in my direction, a suspicious surveying of my visage mutating his crimson grin. "I was, uh, _suspicious_ for awhile. I mean, look at you!" The Joker waved his hands in all his glory at my shaken figure, crossing over the limited space we had away from each other. "You're so… nim-_ble_." He lightly slapped the side of my cheek, grabbing a fistful of my hair and shoving me back onto the chair I stirred in minutes ago.

Holding his circling stance around me, born to intimidate the intimidated, he bent down so that I felt his heated breath at my ear. I sent out a low hiss, shaken from the inside but stern and unbreakable outside. However, my movements were halted.

"I can _see_ it in your fac_e_. How _eeassily_ you can break. You can't hide it from a _man_ like-uh **me**." His voice dissipated. "**However!!**" He growled, startling me into reality. His tongue peaked out of his wet lips, forking over to graze his scars and taste the humid sweat of the anticipation in the air. Leaning in so close to my face that I was about to turn away as the scorching, deep brown of his irises proceeded to burn a hole in me, he laughed in shrill unsympathetic will. "I'm just _so_ cur-_i_-ous at your _vi_o_lence_. Your rage is _beautiful_ music to my ears." Joker exhaled, rolling his eyes to the back of his head in his own twisted pleasure.

He dragged his trusty switchblade along the disfigured trail of raised flesh down my neck.

I struggled to catch my breath, my voice in a state of frozen fixtures. "I came here, to work for **you. **To see if _murdering_ my father all those years ago," I swallowed down the lie like a lawyer defending the guilty: easily and perfectly at ease with myself over my years of practice, "was worth a life to control by my own rules. Knives, bullets, death. I love it all." The Lacey in me grinned, wide and confident, into his face.

"It must, uh, be your _lucky_ day toots." The Joker closed shut his switchblade, whistling nonchalantly as he pulled at the dead man's arm, dragging him out the door like disposing garbage.

* * *

The deal was made that night, nearly written in my own bloodied hands. It was a relief to know all his working clowns were sent home for the day, their own assuaging reliefs having been gifted to survive another day in the presence of the Joker. His position moved, like Williams had promised, because we were given an unspecified address to assemble at by twelve in the afternoon tomorrow. My heart leapt up into my throat when I felt his stare piercing the back of my neck the moment I left. He didn't trust me, not yet. The test wasn't over with, and I had a feeling it was only beginning to settle its fever inside of me.

I knew by natural instinct I would have to continue following his heinous wishes whether I liked it or not.

The face of Lacey Fowlson would live to stay plastered on me for another day. It had potential to reign for **months**. I paced down the streets restlessly, the guilt pressing in on the temples of my head. I killed someone, for game. The thought of it washed unknowingly over me—I was unfamiliar to the form of violence matching up with the Joker's pleasured games. Unconsciously scratching away at the crusted blood that oozed from my head wound, I pondered over what deranged images I'd have to face next.

Would I be forced to murder hundreds of people at once? Watch their life slip away in a blink of a second and _laugh_ about it? I remember the night of the ferry experiment the Joker concocted. How he expected, after all Gotham's citizens experienced on a daily basis that their selfish minds would cave in and take lives for the safety of their own. Would the plan in the tempting dawn of tomorrow be as grotesque as that one? Or would it be minor, hostage-snatching to taunt the city. The latter built up inside of me—he was going to provoke Batman to come out.

That night, when I was in the safety of my covers, having not bothered to remove the rat's nest of blonde hair nor the chocolate darkness of my eyes, I didn't feel alone. I felt watched, followed, and stared at in the vast black of my bedroom by the evils that haunted me. There was a compulsion pulling in my heart, a need to get under the Joker's skin. His horribly scarred demeanor fascinated the weaving labyrinth of my thoughts—I **felt **compelled to think like him at times, figure out why he did the things he did. It was when I neared the edge of reality and dreamscape that I saw a stretching black cape swoop out of sight below my window: the Bat's eyes glinting off the sparkle of the gas lamps outside, watching over me.


	7. Walk In The Sight of The Gun

**I spent a bunch of latenight hours on this one. I wanted to make it longer but then I thought, 'Let's save that part for the next chapter.' So we'll all just wait till later for the rest of it. I was a little upset that I barely got any reviews or comments (2) for the last chapter. Was it too short? Or did it just ooze bad writing? For those that did review last chapter, thank you! You guys are the reason that I sit down and write even more each night just so I could get another chapter out. I'd like to thank all my reviewers so far (put here 2 feel joy, DarkSora31, AbiSnocom, SolitaryMovement, liVe-yOur-fAntasY, iloveme5895, Kit-T-Rex, Dragonsinger13, and Ninja Stealth Noise). You all are great! And most of all I'd like to than put here 2 feel joy for telling me what you liked most and pointed out what might need improvement. I'm keeping your ideas ;D and thank you for PMing me. Anyhow let's move onto the chapter, review please! For the millionth time, I'm open to critiquing.**

I struggled with the oncoming malevolence in a fitful sleep, something that I deprived myself of for a long time. The cons outweighed the pros of my new _work_: death versus sleep-deprivation. I'd happily go back to slurping down coffee like a starved addict, shuffling through regular criminal cases than see the Joker's face inches away from me again. He tried his best pushing me to edge of my wits last night, poking and prodding at the ambiguous weaknesses in my presence. My own emotions betrayed me, radiating anxious energy to his sensitive taste buds.

Dressing for the day had to be a redundant and cautious task. Lacey was rough around the edges, and me, well, I was professional in my stature. Not temptingly treacherous. I trained my facial patterns over the prolonged night encounter with the Joker and his cutthroats, making sure that my muscles pulled my features into a diabolical exterior. After finishing up my tumultuous appearance, I reached out and picked up the phone sitting on my kitchen counter, ready to call Gordon to fill him in on my occurrences with the devil. The ringing droned on forever that I assumed it was off the hook, until I heard an exhausted voice at the end of the line.

"Gordon." I sighed, my body relaxing at the comforting tone of someone other than a lunatic speaking to me.

"Good morning, Miss Whitman." Gordon relapsed into a composed voice without the hint of urgency I half-expected him to use. "I hope you're… _together_ after last night. Did you find him?"

The flashback of the Glasgow smile forever plastered on the Joker's face, the threatening shine of his knife, brought out an unwanted shudder erupting through my skin.

"I did." I answered. The instinctive question dawned on me if I should tell Gordon my evil deed. Would it be necessary to admit I murdered someone on the job? "He nearly picked me to pieces," was all I could force out. Traitor tears slid in thin rivulets down my cheeks. "But I didn't blow my cover, Gordon. I would _never_-" I bit back the sob instantly. Weakness wouldn't be tolerated by the Commissioner either. If I let out the fact a breakdown was closing in on me, Gordon would inform Genton and have me off the case at once.

"I would never fail a case handed at top priority to me, Commissioner." I replied back, dipping my head between my knees to pour out the flow of momentous words.

"I know, Violet. But does he have an idea? A plan today?"

"Yes, there's a plan. And no, I don't know what it is. We got the address, but no one knows the job today. I'm pegging for a hostage situation, nothing out of the abnormal in his taste. You were right. The scars caught his attention, strangely enough." The scooping v-neck of my sweater contrasted to the long scar in an open prominence. Bearing the scar made me feel even more indifferent to the rough world I lived in. It almost made the insides of me twist with malicious intent.

"Keep up the good work, Violet." Gordon stopped right after the statement—his own way of letting you know he wanted to add on for the receiver's benefit or admonishment. "Just a word of caution I'm forcing myself to repeat time and time again to you: be careful." The audible strain of his vocal cords formed a lump in my throat. I swallowed down the panic widening the whites of my eyes, causing the twitching of the down-turned corners of my lips.

The clock read 11:26 on its bright, glaring red panel. The address wasn't exactly downtown Gotham, but taking a cab out of the crammed traffic of the city would do anything to slow my pace down. Stuffing two gleaming pistols and two deadly magnums under my pant legs, I gripped onto the phone for a second longer--anything to hold onto my last connection of stability in the outside world.

"I'll do my best, Commissioner." I cleared my throat of the knots lodged inside, and sent him my goodbye for the day. The shut-off switch was now pushed down and locked until my hours caught in between a chaotic lunacy would end. It was time to become the face of a criminal for a second round. This time, the absurd madness of Lacey Fowlson would shine brighter than her first taste of the blemishes dug into criminal class society. I would become the man who held that pointed blade to the youthful skin of my neck all those years ago. The one who crawls into the darkest parts of the victim's disposition and flicks the trigger off. That is who I had to be in front of the Joker, even if that constant fear of becoming what I hated stabbed at my insides till they bled with virtuosity.

* * *

An assembling of seven or eight men crowded into a partially singed apartment complex room, each gripping onto the soft plastic guises to hide their faces from Gotham's justice. I was an obvious abnormality in the room, half because of the fact I was the only woman standing in the room, and the other half because of the deceptively petite frame I held my body up as. There was muscle underneath these layers of clothes, no doubt. I'm afraid the men's lack of intelligence failed to understand the case that it was the _Joker_ who welcomed me into his gang, otherwise I wouldn't be here.

The remaining men who witnessed my attack yesterday recognized me. The way they positioned themselves was cautioned and well-guarded beside the men who were unacquainted with my guns.

"Af-_ter_-noon, gen_tle_men…" the Joker walked in hunched disproportion into the room, already bringing in a stifling air to the apartment with his occupancy. His glittering obsidian eyes darted to me for a second—the freshly coated smile perked up. "_and _lay-_**dee**_. I've got a uh, little job for all of you. Ooh ha ha! The _Co-_missioner's force will just be **de**lighted picking off the inn_o_cent from the _guil_ty. It's all part of the _game_ Batsy **must** play."

His cronies around me shifted the weight of their feet from side-to-side uneasily. The skin of my palms began to sweat in distress.

"_So_, here is our '_guide-_lines'," the Joker air-quoted with his gloved fingers to instill his own type of humor into the plan. I began to doubt that there was _anything_ except twisted humor in the core of his plan. "The explosives will, uhm, be set up along specific per-im-eters. Ah ah, pay attention! This is where we might… _lose_ our heads. You people," he waved his hands in a circling motion, licking his lips as the adrenaline rush pumped through his system, "will be in the **middle**of the explosives with our _hostages, _who will _**also**_ be masked when the _Co_mmissioner's gang _a_rrives. And theeen…" His eyes rolled up to the surface of the ceiling expectantly.

_I knew it_. I thought. _Always a twist, there's always a twist. He's not going to tell us._

"We find out!!" He cackled. The Joker slipped his hand into the deep waist-pocket of his purple overcoat, a jingling reverberation of the sound of keys lingering every time he moved his arm. "Any takers on catching the _**mice**_ for the trap?" And suddenly, I had that innate feeling that his gaze drifted directly to me once he mentioned it.

"I'd love to."

* * *

Commissioner Gordon and numerous officers I identified were at least thirty feet away from the northernmost detonation zones when they arrived. Just like the Joker had said, we all stood in a pencil-straight line, shoulder-to-shoulder. The hostages were randomized, as was the citizens I had to pick off the street. I wasn't sent alone for my duties—two more of his goons attended me when I walked the streets. It wasn't the Joker's lack of trust in me that fulfilled the issue; it was his humorous pinpoint on my insufficient strength to carry seven victims back to the truck on my own. They conversed among each other a majority of the time, shooting a few peculiar questions towards me every once in awhile when they thought they hammered the Joker's scheme. I answered them as best as I could, without displaying the knowing countenance too easily.

I've worked with criminals for years, and it surprised me that with the few hints Joker lit on fire and threw at us for fun, I knew what was going down.

At least when picking up the citizen's off the streets or in alleyway crevices, they were drugged with chloroform and not beaten as I'd suspected at first. My face, hidden behind the typical patriotic-colored clown mask, shook in anticipation as Gordon stopped now ten feet before the detonation points. The hostages clutched a gun identical to ours, and were dared by the Joker himself that if they fired a single shot, he'd blow us all to our own personal hell. The point of the distance was for the officers to have difficulty deciphering who was shaking or not, when they spent time picking out the hostages. In actuality, it wouldn't astonish me if all of us were shaking in our boots, because the risk of fatality if one of us failed to do our job was 100 elimination of the entire group.

We should've called ourselves kamikazes in the first place.

Working for the Joker was unpredictable, I was only starting to realize. The chances of survival seemed to thin gradually each hour I spent around him, for each time I was within range of him, I was always tested. A tiny reminder inside my head continued to pursue the strength of my morals when the jester of chaos felt the need to crawl under my skin.

Our line was as still as possible to please the unpleased. A woman at my right whimpered, but the whine was muffled by the thick plastic of the mask.

"Shhh…" I hushed, although the sound was emitted as a low hiss.

"Good evening, _Co-_missioner…" the Joker drawled over what I perceived to be speakers concealed at our east and west sides. His laugh rang out into the inner city like an airborne plague, freezing an exposed person's blood ice cold. "Let's play a little _game_… of pick the innocent and **shoot** the guilty. Rules are simple, officers. Surrounding this, ah, _criminal_ line-u**p** are highly-sensitive explosives. Cross the line and they ALL die. Pick out the citizens by shooting every villain and well, _you_ win. But we can't let you have **all** the fun, now can we? The Jack-In-The-Box is winding, Commissioner. Take your **pick**. Let's seee if you can tell the difference between a criminal and a _Goth_-am citizen."

The first motive, I knew it from the moment I saw his face, was to search out which one was me. There were only three women hostages, making it a total of four he had to choose from. Our feminine curves stood out from the men's in a smooth, undulated form. Through the tiny holes in my mask, I caught Commissioner Gordon whispering to two of his officers, pointing to various spots in our line. None of us attempted to move an inch in fear of the fatalistic outcome. The minutes passed as if death itself hovered over our heads questioningly, and I found myself tapping my fingers on the edges of the gun's heavy metallic shell—a nervous and very fidgety habit I failed to drop. _That_ was the moment when I caught Gordon's eye. He didn't directly point at me, but I knew he spread the message through the crowd of the force.

I dropped the act before the Joker could notice my intentions, and he most definitely _would_ notice if I continued. A piercing fire of a gunshot rang in the suffocating air, and the man to my left dropped to his knees with all life drained from him in one quick blow.

"One down, eight more to **kill**," the Joker cheered. A clapping noise thudded through the speakers ecstatically, his deep growl sounding in the noise's background.

The sequence was in a random order, but I suppose it was the way we held ourselves up that gave it away. More than half of us shook; it was all out of terror. You see, criminal minds came in two packages: they were either proud of their misdeeds or contained a condemning conscience for the art of killing. The personality traits were contradicting, though it was enough to determine who worked for the Joker and who didn't. The civilians lacked personality in this case. When they're told what to do, such as standing as still as death or face the consequences, they'll do what they must to stay alive.

I was the complication here, because losing my life for following through with work wouldn't suit my boss well. There was only one resort: shoot but _don't_ kill. One-by-one, his lackeys fell at the hands of justice, shot in non-vital parts of the limbs that prevented immediate death. The hostages let out nothing more than an inaudible sob at each deafening bullet that was fired. The Joker's fun was extracted from the situation as his men went down. I was next. Gordon lifted his pistol without accelerated impulse, the click of the bullet sliding into its hollow and at ready reached my ears. I bit my lip hard, breathing in to brace myself.

Then, hell's fire burned through my veins.

"Game _**over**_."


	8. The Surfacing Criminal

**Phew! That was some hardcore writing over the past week. First off, I have to say 'THANK YOU!' to _put here 2 feel joy_ for her continuous support with this story and I've incorporated some of her brilliant ideas into this chapter. She's practically been here through the whole making of this chapter, with all our late night four in the morning talks about our obsession with the Joker XD. Next I want to thank all of you who reviewed the last chapter! It really meant a lot to me and I hope you continue to **review** and comment on you likes/dislikes of the story. I love hearing all of your feedback. Third, I'd like to thank _Deathcab4kimmie_ for that awesome review you sent me earlier on today! You have no idea (well maybe you do :D) on how much that lifted my spirits and brought happiness to a whole other level. I still think your story kicks ass and takes names, it's brilliant! Well, I know some of you are highly anticipating this chapter, so I give you, Chapter 8!  
P.S. Don't forget I love reviews XD**

There was no time, no subdued moment to spare another thought as his signaling command poured out of the speakers; the Joker was going to blow his failed cavalry _and_ the hostages to pieces. I didn't pause and remain standing in the broken line with fallen men and unsuspecting victims. The exposed burning wound in my arm felt like a thousand daggers peeling my flesh away, but I couldn't let it overwhelm my actions. This was my _life_ to save. It was almost ironic that I knew the Joker's finger hovered over the contraption for one second longer before he pushed the button—as if he **knew** that I was worthy to escape death's clutches… just a little bit longer. I was his new _pet_; a fresh, sane mind to mingle his fingers into and coil into contortions until I lost grip on the morality of right and wrong. My feet carried themselves in vigorous, mercurial dashes away from the Commissioner, the explosives, and the innocent who hadn't a thought their lives would end in a blazing fire. I pressured my gun-shot wound with my unimpaired arm, and ran from the detonation area. The hostages had no time to react; neither did the Gotham City Police. Only the criminals who had minor wounds like mine, thank Gordon for having good aim, thought a step ahead of what the Joker's 'going out with a bang' performance would be.

I didn't _dare_ look behind or hear the screams or the roar of faultless civilians going up in flames. It was selfish of me to care only for myself at the present time, where I spent years of work helping others. By human nature, we are all selfish, and I coveted nothing more than to fall into the safety of the streets, alive. A scorching heat followed by a formidable force of energy pushed into my back, sending my flailing body several feet forwards into the unscathed asphalt. As the explosive beam of light subsided into darkness, the most sickening realization about the escape filled me. I had no choice but to return to the warehouse to face the Joker all over again. He was my boss now, and though we weren't given orders _after_ the dirty deed was committed, Williams' strong reference to the warehouse as the core meeting place pinpointed my direction.

Gasoline, charcoal, and burning skin permeated my sense of smell minutes later as I picked myself up off the ground, gripping onto my arm in an effort to subside the bleeding. Throwing off the clown mask in disgust, I tucked as much of the rubbery plastic into my back pocket as I could manage. I released a habitual shriek as I touched the bleeding contusion with my fingertips. The sweater would have to do for now. Ripping off a thick piece of the fabric, I wrapped up the wound as best as I could without removing the bullet.

"Alright." I groaned, wincing from the stabbing sensations running up the length of my arm consistently, once I began walking down the abandoned street. "Taxi, taxi, taxi." I repeated the words minute-by-minute, my tired eyes searching for a flash of yellow or burgundy under the dim street lights. I was still in the inner city, so there had to be transportation somewhere. My footsteps set a quick pace that broke out into a brisk jog, until luck seemed to finally stick by my side. From out of the corner of my 

eye, I spotted one dropping off a late nightshift worker at her apartment. I waved down the driver before he took off, and he eased on the brakes until I settled into the car. I mumbled the street address the warehouses were situated on, and heard the driver's complaint as the ending response. One of my magnums was already out and pressed to the back of his head before he could utter any other word to his heart's desire. It was simply a warning, but somewhere deep inside, a twinge of hysteria bubbled up through me. "You either get there, bud, or I shoot you and drive myself." I growled.

_Can't he see I'm a _little_ injured here?_

"Y-yes, ma'am." He shifted his taxi into drive, and floored the accelerator. I lifted the gun from his head, content… for now.

Night in Gotham was a whole other reality from daytime. The alleyways held a morbid presence to their dark corners, as criminals-in-waiting sat crouched for a naïve woman to become their prey. The citizens unseen to the street-walker's eye were all situated in their living rooms or tucked away into the secure warmth of a bed, knowing their fate if they tried a walk at this time. Streets were nearly vacant except the spare occupants of every other car trying to make it home for the day. Lovers were inevitably close-fitting, kissing each other goodnight to another tomorrow. The haunting melodic tune of the night air whispered approaching death and spared life every day. Its mysterious actions only definable through the sands of time. And I fit into none of these categories. I had a date with the devil, who I envisioned with a bone-chilling, over-stretched crimson smile of rage when he saw the survivors pulling themselves back to him unwillingly in defeat.

The driver pulled up beside a demolished curb, his silent demeanor a tell-tale he wouldn't ask for money. I stepped from the cab, instilling a trusting feeling in the pit of my stomach before I'd be overrun with terror. The building's lights were slightly lit; enough illumination to make your way around the rooms. My hand pressed harder into the bullet wound as I kicked open the half unhinged door from its locks. Three other injured lackeys stood in the center of the room, each bullet implanted in a different area.

"I'm home, boys." My grin was menacing under the layer of sweet sincerity in my tone. "Did ya miss me?"

They would have attacked me, by the looks in their eyes, if it wasn't for the fact that they could bleed to death.

"Ooh,look-ie here, the pups came home to their _da_ddy for a bone. Daddy's not very_ hap__py_." The Joker slicked back his greasy, green-tinted hair and approached the four of us in exaggerated, high steps. He stopped in front of the man beside me, almost nose-to-nose in height so that their eyes were forced to be locked. "Do you re_mem_ber what I specifically told you? Huh?" The Joker shook his head up and down in a yes motion, cupping his hand to his ear.

The man's face remained composed throughout the staring contest, but his answer came out in a mousy whisper.

"You, you said that if Commissioner was winning, that I should shoot the hostages, Boss."

"Yess, yesss… and what did you do?" He pressed his cupped hand to his ear again, expecting a plausible answer.

"Nothing." The man uttered breathlessly.

"**Nothing?! Nothing!!** HA!" Joker laughed mercilessly. He had withdrawn his switchblade before the man had an understanding of what was going on, and slashed a cleanly deep line across his neck. After all the death I witnessed tonight, this man who fell right beside me was nothing but a memory of the first criminal falling out of line at Gordon's gun. "The failing cutthroat." He giggled, caressing the bloodstained blade with precious care. Then, his hollowed black eyes fell on me. The Joker unfurled a stack of money in his pocket, waving it in my face like I'd fall to temptation. "Our _La-cey_, back from the dead! Here's the money, ya want it? C'mon, take it." My face reflected his frown, turning aside when he shoved it into my view. "TAKE IT!" The low, demonic gnarl made my body jump into a brief spasm.

"I **don't** want it." I heard myself, Lacey, ring out in spite.

"And why not, toots?" He smacked the stack of folded bills against my cheek. "Not **e**nough?"

"Money's for the desperate." The courageous voice built up and spat out in his face. "I'm not desperate. I'm the willing."

"Ah, a woman with a _c__**r**__ave_ for theatrics, and without pay!" He slid his crimson-coated blade across my jaw line and up my face, scrutinizing the heavy, unnatural gaze I was enveloped in. He looked away from my played-up smile, the darkness of his eyes darting in several directions through fragmented thoughts. The blade never ceased its perdition of smearing death's paint over my cheeks, disdainfully threatening a false move. "That explains the _lack_ of wea**p**ons. Orr…" His tongue poked through his parted, red-stained lips and dragged over the raised scars. "You came here a_ssum_ing I wouldn't kill you. _Why_?" Joker's laughter rang out around them. The wounded lackeys seemed to disperse in the midst of our conversation, not daring to walk off in fear of a more severe bullet wound. I held my tongue to the rhetorical question, eyes following him when he circled over me like a crooked sky-scraper. He tilted his face down towards me, almost mocking the snide smirk that settled onto my lips.

"Because you're reckless." He grinned an over-stretched, scar-tugging smile. His eyes averted down to my scar snaking across the collarbone and up to my jaw, brushing his switchblade down the nerve-less light pink skin. He ripped away the cloth tied to my upper arm, and pressed a finger deep into the bullet wound to see my face falter just once in pain. My head jerked away with a light hiss at the burning sensation, eyes shut tight to ease off the feeling. "And _cow_-ardly. You ran away from your family, you 

ran away from justice, and you ran away from **death**." Joker's face scrunched disappointingly, removing his bloodied finger and wagging it at her as if she deserved a scolding. "Ya see, Lace," he continued, his deep voice rising to its terrifying childish pitch. "I… embrace… death." His tongue glided across his lips, eyes rolling back to savor the copper smell of his most recent kill.

"And **I **embrace vengeance." I whispered harshly, turning my head back around to look him in the eye. The pulse of my heart thumped erratically in my chest as I stared up at him, afraid of his response to my disobedient mouth.

"Vengeance, my little blonde murderer, is sweet for only a moment." The Joker heaved a sigh and pulled my missing paring knife from his pocket. "It is breathed only _**once**_. **Chaos**… is a, uh, lifetime pleasure. You kill to _feeel_." He grasped my hand and placed the knife in my palm, folding it closed and patting it to seal the deal. "I kill to throw this already crumbling world off balance. The Batman is the key to Gotham's padlock. Aaand… I intend to bring that key to this city, even if it means burning **every** building to ashes." The Joker grasped my impaired arm, pointing at the hole in it with his own knife and shoving me towards a door at the beginning of a hallway. "Fix yourself, sweets, because working for _me_ doesn't give you injury benefits. I play dirty, and you're either in or out. Meaning… I kill you or you kill under **my** cuh-mand."

I caught myself before I could fall at his harried push, his quiet laughter fading into the background when I managed to close shut the door of a worn down bathroom. Dirt, mold, and grime clung to the cracked tiles poorly pasted to the walls, inching through the crevices of the floor and the drain of the bathtub. The fissured mirror disfigured by dust and shattered pieces reflected my blood-painted face back to me. This face, the abstract features twisting in the mirror, was Lacey. She smiled back at me, the hardened blood falling off her face as the corners of her mouth raised. I opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, searching to any disinfectant before I delved into the process of bullet-removal. There was only a roll of gauze, a dirtied cloth, and a half-empty bottle of peroxide in the cabinet.

The persistent phobia of infection gripped me as I stared down at the bleeding perforation with wide, brown eyes. The blonde vigor of my hair faded over time to a dirty untidiness that looked more real than when it was first weaved into my hair. My true identity was becoming alien to me. The Violet persona I was born with, and grew up with, continued to remain. But it was slowly fading away with my appearance, morphing into the theory Lacey's mind was set in stone on: crime is to teach a lesson to people refusing to act on the world or to themselves. I was turning into someone else; someone the Joker could easily bend to his will more than Violet ever could. And Lacey was willing to do it.

I carefully washed off the remnants of virulent residue and grime packed into the wash cloth, wiping away the excess blood trailing down my skin from the Joker's jubilant poking at the abrasion. My paring knife needed to be disinfected since there were no prongs up in the medicine cabinet, and matches was one of the significant supplies absent for the process. I turned the faucet dial to hot as a last resort, dipping the knife under the current until scalding hot water ran across the blade. Unscrewing the lid of the peroxide, I poured a bit of the liquid into my wound, the hole filling up with white foam. I clenched my teeth together as it disinfected, and tipped some more peroxide over my paring knife.

Earsplitting screams were heard from the room where the Joker was, followed by a strained gag and a thump. A different voice broke into rapid chatter afterwards, one set of hollow footsteps pacing back and forth as they rambled on with their own poor excuses.

"Ha ha, hee, and you buh-leeve that _I_ will spare you after **that** little show?" I heard him break out in a deep laugh through the walls, knife grasped in my other hand, entirely still. "It's not, um, hard to replace men like _you_. Now. Take your stack of greed, and go **home**." His growl resonated through the walls, and the man's diminishing footfalls left the room. The Joker sent out one last hysterical chuckle, snapping what sounded like a shotgun shell into place, and firing at the door.

I recoiled further into the bathroom and away from the wall. My attention was redirected to the cleansed wound, all prepped for a painful extraction. I bit down on the damp cloth, and plunged my blade carefully into the penny-sized hole. Shallow, fleeting breaths escaped through my flaring nostrils, the tears and surfacing screams beginning to form. There was a metallic hit when I felt I reached the base of the wound, and I reluctantly twisted around the knife to curve it underneath the bullet. The sobs reached their maximum limit, and I was nearly hyperventilating by the exertion it took to push the metal up through my flesh. There was a rattled knock at the door as I silently shed tears through the mind-numbing anguish forcing my body to tremble at its weakest.

"Are we, uh, having some fun in there?" Joker's giggle was muffled through the wood of the door, but it was enough to make my body shudder into a second set of spasms. If I answer him, I'd have to let out a wail, and the Lacey side of me refused to speak.

The shimmering silver of the bullet peaked through the gaping hole in my arm, falling to the ground with an echoed clank. Relief washed over my demeanor the moment the metal left my body, and I was at last able to answer the Joker's self-uplifting question.

"Loads of fun… I guarantee." I answered in a hidden attempt to force out the pain in my voice.

"Now that you're… _healed_, I suggest picking a room. Because you're not l**ea**ving." He opened up the bathroom door as I finished wrapping my arm, leaning against what was left of the door panel in impatience.

"And why not? We all left yesterday." I remarked, pretending to be distracted 

by placing every item back in the medicine cabinet so I wouldn't have to look him in the eye.

"And look where _they_ ended up." His scars perked up into a sinful grin, gliding his darkened gloves against the edge of his switchblade.

"Why did you spare me?"

"_So_ many questions, Lace. Sparing doesn't exactly cut i**t**. I simply held off your death for a couple days. Why waste a corrupted, intelligent mind like yours when the fun hasn't even begun? You haven't puh-rooved yourself to **me** you can walk the city at will. So birdie's gonna stay in her cage a little longer before she's set free." The Joker walked forward and grasped my chin in his powerful grip, jerking my head upwards. Violet wanted to look away, but Lacey challenged him with her eyes. "Got that, toots?" He leaned in close enough to be nose-to-nose with me, his ringed darkness staring at me with a keen sense of annoyance.

"Got it, Boss." I replied without looking away. It amazed me, how just by my intelligence, my death was delayed. Or how much I puzzled him with the alternating expressions every time my emotions held me back. Minute-by-minute, he was being fooled, but at the same time I was waiting on him hand and foot. His little servant of destruction was beginning to come into play whether I wanted to or not. I wondered what the next action would be tomorrow. Countless more murders, threats, and bombs, I suppose. No matter the cost, even if we were alone right now and I could very well send in reinforcements, it wouldn't be the same. I planned to get this man to see Lacey as a criminal of his status, and I was beginning to think that my limits would need to be surpassed in order to survive in Joker's game. The recklessness was overwhelmingly tempting, and I felt I had no choice.

My room was indecent, but I wasn't expecting anything better than a stained mattress and a blanket anyhow. With a fortunate quickness that rarely enters my nighttime routine, especially when I was only feet away from a maniacal killer, heaviness began to pull shut my eyes. His presence entered the room on the brink of me falling under, and through the slits of my eyes, I watched him take a seat in the corner. The whiteness brought a frightening contrast to his shadowed eyes in the fallen darkness as he remained immovable watching me. The purpose was unknown, but he never moved from the spot even when my eyes fell to unconsciousness.

* * *

The Joker gathered up quite a number of men the following day for his new scheme. This strategy, however, required miles of space. I was partially alone when sent out on the job, save for one of his men to assist me with the demolition charges.

"I don't care that you have _special_ treatment, or whatever the others said, from the Boss. You're just a girl, and I'm the guy here. So we do what **I** say and get this over with, deal?"

_Men._

I rolled my eyes and shoved him into a parked car, a revolver emerging from the hidden strap tied around my hips.

"No deal," I sighed in boredom. The thug stared up at me, caught off guard when the heel of my shoe collided with the bridge of his nose. "I'm in this because I _like_ it, not here for the money. That makes me, what? At least a level or two higher than you in criminal status? We do what **I **want to do, and that's setting up these charges, deal?" I threw another kick—this time to his ribs—in case there was objection. Grasping his bleeding nose, he shook his head in agreement, carrying off the bag of explosives towards his station.

I shrugged it off and turned in my assigned direction, picking up my own duffle bag. From the corner of my eye, a hand shot out in blinding speed and grasped onto my arm. My first instinct was to fight back. But, as I was pulled around the corner, my shouts muffled by a rough hand over my lips, the voice I'd missed hearing when I thought my old life was eternally lost filled my eardrums.

"Gordon?!"


	9. Smile, You're Dying

**Okay, so I have to greatly apologize for the late update. As we all know, school has started, and I was up to my neck in AP class homework every single day of the week. This initially left me with no time except weekends to write while I jotted down my chapter plans in my notebook during class. I believe it's been nearly 3 weeks since my last update, and I'm terribly sorry. Currently on my new laptop, Microsoft Word thought it was funny to lock up itself because I never bought Word 2007 since this story—I was typing on the free trial. So I typed the rest of this chapter on fanfiction after uploading what I had written so far. Secondly, I'd like to thank every reader who has kindly waited for me to update. If I still have readers left which I'm sure I have at least a couple ;D. I've been checking hits and visitors ever since school took control of my life, and I've realized that out of so many readers who have an interest in this story, the very few review. I want to thank every single one of you who did, because you just make my day every time I read them.**

**I'm not being a review "I won't update until you give me this many reviews" hog. I just wanted to inform you all who don't review that I really love feedback, even if it's an honest critique on my writing. You could even just leave a review telling me that you love the story and are waiting for the next update... or the opposite. It's just simple, but it feeds to the fire of inspiration to write more. Two more pieces of news: I have a poll up in my profile that needs a few more answers, and in my profile my lovely friend from Canada, Linda, designed for me. She's a fantastic writer, but unfortunately I don't think has a FF account. Drop by and take a peek at it if you're curious. And last but certainly not least, I continue to thank _put here 2 feel joy_ for being my FFnet friend who reads over sections of my chapters and tells me what I need more of and less of. Thank you so much, and I just _have_ to say that you all should go read her story _Red, White & Blue_ because she has amazing ideas that make her story incredible. Next chapter's going to be good, I must say. So after my mega-long AN, here is chapter 9!! Enjoy!**

A chemical reaction shattered the climactic barrier of the atmosphere, my guarded face slowly perking up into a bright smile at the sight of the Commissioner. The unending days my mind revolved around the Joker's homicidal, blood-spilling games were like a deck of cards shuffled incorrectly. Scattered in opposing directions, they greedily took pieces of me and all that I poured my work into with them. The result: leaving me to face one of my closest partners in crime to hold tight to everything left of the Violet inside of me. His frantic hold on my arm loosened as he watched the recognition click through the liquid pools of my eyes.

"Violet." Gordon whispered the lowest his voice was capable of as he pulled me even further around the corner of the alley and out of sight of any passersby.

_Violet??_ The name squeezed through my eardrums and out the other side of my head like a wasted piece of paper going up in flames. _Violet_ was foreign to me—the name _Lacey_ only igniting a burning ember in the darkest depths of my unrelenting soul. The high-prized Detective I prided myself over being was buried away and brought back to me the moment my old name reached me, and Lacey struggled to tuck it back into the folds of my past before the real me surfaced.

Gordon's worrisome gaze shifted to the taut gauze concealing the progressively healing wound underneath the wrappings of tape. The anxiety of his stature faded to relief, and back to horror over the course of a few seconds. "Your arm-"

"My arm is perfectly fine." I released an uncommon smile—a smile that wasn't intended through forced emotion, up at him. "It's a little torn up, but healing... If you don't mind me asking," I lifted up the bag of explosives, pointing to the taped marks placed on the surface of the asphalt not more than six feet away from us, "why are you here to talk to me?" My eyes swam over the area once I snuck a peek around the corner of the brick wall, surveying my partner's wire work before I looked at Gordon again. He sighed and reached into his front coat pocket, brushing aside the pistol inside, removing an audio recorder. On the top of the player laid a note. The sharp criss-crossing lines written in scarlet red made my insides churn noiselessly. I knew who the penman of the note was, and I began to remember his cryptic mentioning this morning of our target to use against the entire city. It was vague, but the words _detective agency_ threw all collective assumptions away on how it was going to affect me. With outstretched, shaking hands I brought the recorder into my palms reading '_Play for death coordinates'_ scribbled in a sharp script on the coverlet white sheet of paper.

"We received it this morning. I think it's important, most specifically for you, to listen."

Pressing a quivering finger on the play button, white noise buzzed in my ears before the ragged breathing took over each source of sound.

"Good _mourn_-ing Gotham City p_o_lice and _de_tectives. Having a nice day so far? Good." A joyous laugh followed soon after, provoking the blaze of alarm. "I have another game for ya. Listening? Good, _goood_. This game, oh, let's call it Op_er_ation Squeal-er, might make you rethink where your co-workers stand involving a little thing called **trust**… Ever wondered what it's like to have a person _so _honored, _so_ noble, stab you in the back consistently?"

The irony felt similar to a pulsating wound, throbbing from the core of the Joker and outwards into the city in a mind-jolting explosion. His reasoning held more meaning than he had planned, for I continued to stab him in the back each day the face of Lacey remained painted in strokes of complacence across the crevices of my face. And yet he continued planning, including me in each advancement and objective, obliviously arrogant that his terrorism wouldn't create a traitor in his group of thugs. As Lacey's character wired herself through my veins, I couldn't help but feel that surge of adrenaline when I lied to him. That lie eventually bent and curled under the hour his eyes were on me until its mold fit the shape of a truth. A truth that I was wrapped around the Joker's finger more than I thought. His prime puppet under a cluttered knot of strings.

"You people just don't realize that m_ay_be your men are cowardly enough to risk other people's lives to save themselves. Let me tell you: I **don't** _like_ cowards." I heard his low growl resonate through the speaker, much too powerful to sustain any average pitch for the device. "Jared was beneficial… for awhile. But I've been getting _bored_, and his secret-spilling hasn't picked up the pace. So I'll cut you a deal, bring Jared Miller to **me** by nine tonight, or I blow half of this city to pieces. Ha, um, and **don't** be late." I could already imagine his evocative blood-red grin of scars stretching to great lengths of insane hilarity as if they could reopen and bleed once more. I swallowed the unstoppable lump forming in the back of my throat. The thought process was slow, but finally my panic pieced itself together once the legitimacy sank in. Jared worked for the Joker?

White noise reentered the message, sealing the fate in Joker's set of unruly cards.

"Jared will face criminal charges for associating with and passing confidential files to the Joker, Violet. You realize that, don't you?" My fingers loosened from the recorder, letting the device slam into the concrete in a crushing heap as my breath left me.

"How could he do this?" I heard myself ask and threw my downcast eyes towards the broken tape hanging out of the case, the unraveled ribbons a symbol of advancing devastation.

_Why wouldn't he do it?_ Lacey's uninterrupted conniving thoughts oozed through my mind like a virulous poison. She wrapped me up with her cruel, murderous hands before penitence overrode my system, tying the blackened bow with a touch of hatred. _He betrayed you_.

"Sometimes the Joker has a way of turning the most honorable people into criminals. We can't stop it—it's never-ending, Violet. People will do anything to save their lives, and I believe Jared's life was once threatened into a bargain… leading to this. We've taken him into protective custody. Our SWAT team is scattered throughout the city to search for the designated bombs." His eyes averted to the duffle bag at my side, stuffed with equipment for demolition charges. "I know I can't interfere with your work, but is there any way to prevent those from going off?"

My fingers brushed the handle of the bag, almost in a loving manner, face scrunched into a sneer as I looked away from him. I didn't _want_ to stop them from going off. How would Jared feel now that I was changing into something that was supposedly an invented character in my mind? I looked up at Gordon, and down at my bag of tragedies deciding that I would follow through with the plan. The Joker's plan. My stomach lurched with a distorted animosity—knuckles tightening on the thought of Jared's disloyalty.

"You'd keep Jared in your hands rather than saving Gotham City. Am I correct?" Teeth clenched and palms shaking, Lacey's rage submerged under my skin—an itch I just couldn't seem to scratch away.

"Our cops are doing their jobs. I've already received calls for successful dismantles. We can save the city and your best friend who's good at doing his own job, despite what he's been forced to commit to for the past several months."

"You can't do it." I muttered. A smile uprising a brewing storm underneath the tendrils of my hate graced my features in a malicious slap to the face. "Long ago he told me he'd do _anything_ to save me from a dilemma I couldn't get myself out of. He was only adding to the troubles I went through." My mind was racing thousands of ideas per second, feelings becoming vacant without remorse. Violet was somewhere deep inside, and I knew that I would continue to do anything to protect my city. It was contradicting. I've destroyed at least over twenty people's lives, going against Gordon's code and my boss's code without them knowing, and I insist on letting the Joker destroy Jared in the end. I turned away from Commissioner Gordon, my lips softly tightening into the most truthful smile I had for him with what was left of Violet. "Protect Jared with your life, Commissioner, because even _I_ can't stop what may happen to him. I'm only one out of several in this plan, and I'm sorry but I can't let everything I've worked for fall apart. I'm afraid all I can say to you, is good luck."

* * *

"Confirmation of detonators implanted. Copy?" I murmured into the walkie-talkie, continuing with my previous action of opening up the broad case hidden away on the fire escape assigned for my use in this operation. I released the button to hear eight of the Joker's mens' responses through the strident screeches of late night traffic.

"Confirmed, Fowlson. Over." Eight responding voices, all set in a level of gruff to deep tenor tones answered the Boss's _pet_ at once. My fingers felt over to the channel switch, flicking the thin trigger three times in satisfaction before the station settled down and I could easily hear quick breaths bouncing back to me. "Everyone's ready, Boss." The overbearing grin might have mirrored the Joker's at that very moment as I gripped the bazooka shell in a loving embrace, sliding the manually assembled explosive into its chamber and twisting it into place.

"Perfect." His childish pitch screeched through the speaker like it did with the audio recorder earlier, melting into a euphoric silence of static before his spacious thoughts pulled themselves together again. "And, uh, _Lacey_? My little... bip_o_lar agent. Chaos rests in **your** hands tonight, toots." The wet muffled flick of a tongue, I recognized, halted his beguiling words. The air instantly burned around me—oxygen erupting into flames by the strength of Joker's turmoil. "I have a feeeling that a uh... _Bat_man will appear, what with a supposed apprentice dealing her own deck of cards below me. Excited, Lace? I know _I_ am." His laugh resonated into a building crescendo, police sirens approaching through the background on his side of the channel.

"Ecstatic," the tumultuous assembling of criminalistic thoughts made my voice a pitch higher than I imagined. The tip of my pointer finger touched the trigger of the contraption.

"Sparks will fly soon enough. Sooner than you _think_." His persistent passes to flick out his tongue reverberated back to me when he paused, and I couldn't help but lick my own lips in anticipation of what was coming next. "Ha, let's just say... I'm in the heat of the chase! Over and out, _La_-cey." The click of the power switch shut off and I dropped the walkie talkie to the metallic grate of the fire escape, lifting up the weight of the bazooka over my shoulder to focus in on the approaching target.

Tires burning an insufficient supply of their rubber squealed against the blacktop of the road as five cop cars drifted around the corner of the street. The protective van containing traitorous Jared seemed to be making a worthless attempt at speeding past the closing in red, white, and blue lights. That's when I noticed the Joker laughing so riotously into Gotham's chaotic streets, hanging out of the leading cop car's window with knowing eyes alternating between me and an opposing henchman up on our own fire escapes. _He_ aimed first, pulling the trigger and falling backwards in a bundle of heat and force once the shell left its home. The cars made one last squeal before the Joker and his men fastened into the other cars swerved forwards in a screeching, heated curve, blocking out any sign of escape. My own finger, laced in the sweetest temptation of releasing the explosion, yanked the trigger on its assigned target. I lurched backwards into the ladder behind me in enough time to push myself forwards again to inspect the damage I committed in a single second. Lungs swelled from the hot smoke of fires lighting up the city's streets like a christmas tree, I pulled myself over the ledge of the escape and onto the road. The bazooka shell launched into the side of the van, flinging the hunk of metal upside down and skidding into the crushed cop cars scattered amongst the rubbled mess. I walked onwards, hollow but adrenaline-filled to oblige the Joker's fulfilled plans.

The car collision—metal against metal—formed a wall unable to be passed without a struggle against gasoline drips and igniting flames. My palms brushed the holster tied to my hips, sighs of release once fingertips grazed the power of the gun. The Joker emerged from the nearest cop car toppled over and unharmed by the greedy ruins of fire. Jared struggled away from the shattered glass scattered amongst the gasoline-coated tarmac. The timed clack of my heels were but an echo to his ears as the alarms, shrieks, and sirens sliced a shuddering wave into the atmosphere of Gotham. My long time best friend's molten silver orbs widened at the heavily dangerous physique I took shape of. Violet tried to surface at a second's notice, clawing in shallow, withered breaths to the top of dominance at the sight of her co-worker. Lacey shoved her back under into the watery depths of somnolence so that weakness wouldn't take a toll in this work. Footsteps pounded, _my_ footsteps, ever so closer to him like a hurricane billowing inwards to terrorize the shores.

1...2...3...4...

I felt myself lean down as the clicking of heels stopped before the mangled body below me, the wisps of fake blonde hair absorbing his blood-painted cheeks once my mouth reached the hollow of his ear.

"Why?" I hissed. My gun was removed at once from its cage, tucked under his jaw so tightly pushed in to exaggerate the emotional pain that coursed through my body at the word of his betrayal. "Why did you do it?"

10...11...12...

I tasted his anguish, crushed the heartache into pieces and inhaled it. I _felt_ the shallow breaths his body permitted just so he could stay alive.

"To protect _you_, Violet-"

"It's Lacey now." My mouth spat out, recoiling into my ball of hate before the weakness emerged.

"God, what has he done with you? Time hasn't passed quick enough, and he's already made you this. Where'd you go? Where's the woman I used to know who spent hours **never** giving up on a case. Doing what she must to keep families safe at night and away from killers _like_ him." All was hushed in barely a whisper, a fading wind blowing across my face but never leaving an impacted taste on my tongue to savor. Violet thrashed like a child beating away at a toy they so despised, crawling with inching hands to cup Jared's face and take him away from what she was going to do. I heard the heavier steps of a looming man approaching the scene, an imprinting shadow of detestable madness hitting the detonator button.

"Time's a ticking. _Tick-tock, tick-tock._ What _are_ we going to do with you?... Is it the memories? Reliving those very last moments when you saw that family portrait shred before your eyes. I _know_ the feeling, Lace." Joker's face furrowed into a slumped frown only rabid dogs can imitate. He stopped beside my lowered figure, whistling in nonchalance before his rimmed eyes fell on Jared. "Oh! Jared! How lovely to see you! How's the police, the detectives? I'd have you tell them I said hi, but I think you won't make it _that_ far tonight. Toots, do the honors, if you will." A glimmering knife was unsheathed out of the corner of my eye, lowering towards me in an alacritous rush. "Cut a _smile_ for me, Lace." Cold fabric wrapped around powerful hands gripped my fist until the tender flesh ripped by command of the blade. He shoved me towards Jared, body grazing the flame-ignited ground surrounding the scene. They licked at my legs, hissing under an unstoppable force. "Corrupt _him_. Unmask the madness inside him... Do it."

Jared inspected my face. The blade pulled at me, yearning for blood. And there will be blood. I inched the sparkling silver inside his mouth, leaning closer so that the Joker couldn't identify my hidden intention. Silently, unwishingly, I kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting the coppery liquid with my tongue.

"I stopped it for you. _Everything_ was for you and your work. Finish it—for the sake of your city." He gasped in a heart-wrenching blow to the open wound widening by the minute inside of me.

"I'm. _Not._ Sorry."

99...100.

And the blade ripped through his cheek like tissue paper dipped in water. Lacey took control before I collapsed under shock, guiding the knife into Jared's body to finish what I started.

The Batman watched from but a distance, a caricature of Gotham surrendering to a clown's lawless antics before he disappeared into the city's underbelly with a swish of his unprotecting cape.

* * *

Jared's ever-darkening blood stained my body a disarrayed red, sinking down into the fibers of my fabric and skin. My pores reeked unspeakable murder. No matter how hard I could scrub at it until it bled out scarlet, Jared's blood was on my hands and the thought of dealing with that made me hate myself even more. I wrapped my arms around my body to form the protective cast against the world as everyone stepped through the threshold, into hideout number two. Joker's men hooted in victorious celebration like the animals they were, each taking their own sweet time to toss a respectful glance towards me. It was I who _tore_ _up_ Jared's paper-thin skin of his face… like a ragdoll. _I_ carved and punctured him until he was screaming.

A broad-shouldered thug to my right settled down into the couch as if this room was the closest place to home, flipping on the television set with a content laugh. Newscasters flooded the channels, and my feet seemed to sink on their own reluctantly into the carpet at the spectacle. A woman's face was displayed in the upper right-hand corner of the screen—a man all too personal to be unrecognized accompanying her with that delightful lust for the spotlight. The chaotic tangle of her dirtied blonde hair caught me off guard as I watched the woman's black depths darken into a delirious abyss. The emotion I couldn't read. It was as if the switch was shut off; no vibrant sensation brightening a pigment in her skin, glistening an eye. The equability _hollow_ and **rotting**. Her face stained in the blood of the forced victim—Joker kneeling down at her side with that everlasting smile painted in sin across his fissured cheeks—I didn't recognize her.

'_The Joker's Accomplice?_' flashed in bold headlines below the image. I couldn't breathe. The woman on the television smiled, and the recognizable jab of pain floored me. Her arm was decorated in ripped apart gauze, and I glanced down at my own arm—the mirror image startling me. _She was **me**._ Then, I realized that the Violet ceasing to exist faded away with the life of Jared. She left but a single watery trail of departure, the tainted drop a sign of regret. Through the moment she temporarily lamented, the Joker caught sight of the detective running away, only to be replaced by something much greater than chaos itself.


End file.
